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PLAYS  BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


THE  SILVER  BOX 

JOY 

STRIFE 

JUSTICE 

THE  LITTLE  DREAM 


THE   ELDEST   SON 

A  DOMESTIC  DRAMA  IN  THREE  ACTS 


THE   ELDEST   SON 

A  DOMESTIC  DRAMA  IN  THREE  ACTS 


BY 
JOHN   GALSWORTHY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1912 


COPTRIQHT,    1912,   BT  J 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS         j 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

The  Eldest  Son  was  written  in  the  early  months  of 
1909.  Accidents  happy  and  unhappy  have  pre- 
vented lis  performance  earlier  than  November  of  1912. 


6013 


PERSONS   OF  THE  PLAY 

Sm  William  Cheshire,  a  baronet 

Lady  Cheshire,  his  vnfe 

Bill,  their  eldest  son 

Harold,  their  second  son 

Ronald  Keith  {in  the  Lancers),  their  son-in-law 

Christixe  ijiis  wife),  their  eldest  daughter 

Dot,  their  second  daughter 

Joan,  their  third  daughter 

Mabel  Lanfarne,  their  guest 

The  Reverend  John  Latter,  engaged  to  Joan 

Old  Studdenham,  the  head-keeper 

Fbeda  Studdenham,  the  lady's-maid 

Young  Dunning,  the  under-keeper 

Rose  Taylor,  a  village  girl 

Jackson,  the  butler 

Charles,  a  footman 

TIME:  The  present.     The  action  passes  on  December  7  and 
8  at  the  Cheshires'  country  house,  in  one  of  the  shires. 

ACT  I.     SCENE  I.     The  hall;  before  dinner. 

SCENE  II.     Tlie  hall;  after  dinner. 

ACT  II.     Lady  Cheshire's  morning  room;  after  breakfast. 

ACT  III.     The  smoking-room;  tea-time. 

A  night  elapses  between  Acts  I.  and  II. 


572709 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I 

The  scene  is  a  well-lighted,  and  large,  oak-panelled 
hall,  with  an  air  of  being  lived  in,  and  a  broad,  oak 
staircase.  The  dining-room,  drawing-room,  billiard- 
room,  all  open  into  it;  and  under  the  staircase  a 
door  leads  to  the  servants'  quarters.  In  a  huge  fire- 
place a  log  fire  is  burning.  There  are  tiger-skins  on 
the  floor,  horns  on  the  walls;  and  a  writing-table 
against  the  wall  opposite  the  fireplace.  Freda 
Studdenham,  a  pretty,  pale  girl  with  dark  eyes,  in 
the  black  dress  of  a  lady's-maid,  is  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  staircase  vnih  a  bunch  of  white  roses  in 
one  hand,  and  a  bunch  of  yellow  roses  in  the  other. 
A  door  closes  above,  and  Sib  William  Cheshire, 
in  evening  dress,  comes  downstairs.  He  is  perhaps 
fifty-eight,  of  strong  build,  rather  bull-necked,  with 
grey  eyes,  and  a  well-coloured  face,  whose  choleric 
autocracy  is  veiled  by  a  thin  urbanity.  He  speaks 
before  he  reaches  the  bottom. 

Sib  William.  Well,  Freda!  Nice  roses.  Who  are 
they  for? 

Freda.  My  lady  told  me  to  give  the  yellow  to  Mrs. 
Keith,  Sir  William,  and  the  white  to  Miss  Lanfarne,  for 
their  first  evening. 

3 


4  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  i 

Sir  William.  Capital.  [Passing  on  towards  the 
dravnng-room\  Your  father  coming  up  to-night  ? 

Freda.  Yes. 

Sir  William,  Be  good  enough  to  tell  him  I  specially 
want  to  see  him  here  after  dinner,  will  you  ? 

Freda.  Yes,  Sir  William. 

Sir  William.  By  the  way,  just  ask  him  to  bring  the 
game-book  in,  if  he's  got  it. 

He  goes  out  into  the  drawing-room;  and  Freda 
stands  restlessly  tapping  her  foot  against  the 
bottom  stair.  With  a  flutter  of  skirts  Chris- 
tine Keith  comes  rapidly  down.  She  is  a 
nice-looking,  fresh-coloured  young  woman  in  a 
Urw-necked  dress. 

Christine.  Hullo,  Freda!    How  are  you? 

Freda.  Quite  well,  thank  you.  Miss  Christine — 
Mrs.  Keith,  I  mean.  My  lady  told  me  to  give  you 
these. 

Christine.  [Taking  the  roses]  Oh!  Thanks!  How 
sweet  of  mother! 

Freda.  [In  a  quick,  toneless  voice]  The  others  are  for 
Miss  Lanfarne.  My  lady  thought  white  would  suit  her 
better. 

Christine.  They  suit  you  in  that  black  dress. 

[Freda  lowers  the  roses  quickly. 
What  do  you  think  of  Joan's  engagement  ? 

Freda.  It's  very  nice  for  her. 

'  Christine.  I  say,  Freda,  have  they  been  going  hard 
at  rehearsals  ? 


sc.  1  THE  ELDEST  SON  5 

Freda.  Every  day.  Miss  Dot  gets  very  cross,  stage- 
managing. 

Christine.  I  do  hate  learning  a  part.  Thanks 
awfully  for  unpacking.     Any  news  ? 

Freda.  [In  the  same  quick,  dull  voice]  The  under- 
keeper,  Dunning,  won't  marry  Rose  Taylor,  after 
aU. 

Christine.  What  a  shame!  But  I  say  that's  serious. 
I  thought  there  was — she  was — I  mean 

Freda.  He's  taken  up  with  another  girl,  they  say. 

Christine.  Too  bad !  [Pinning  the  roses]  D'you 
know  if  Mr.  Bill's  come.' 

Freda.  [With  a  swift  upward  look]  Yes,  by  the  six- 
forty. 

Ronald  Keith  comes  slowly  down,  a  weathered 
firm-lipped  man,  in  evening  dress,  with  eyelids 
half  drawn  over  his  keen  eyes,  and  the  air  of  a 
horseman. 

Keith.  Hallo!  Roses  in  December.  I  say,  Freda, 
your  father  missed  a  wigging  this  morning  when  they 
drew  blank  at  Warnham's  spinney.  Where's  that  litter 
of  little  foxes  ? 

Fred.\.  [Smiling faintly]  I  expect  father  knows.  Cap- 
tain Keith. 

Keith.  You  bet  he  does.  Emigration  ?  Or  thin  air  ? 
What? 

Christine.  Studdenham'd  never  shoot  a  fox,  Ronny. 
He's  been  here  since  the  flood. 

Keith.  There's  more  ways  of  killing  a  cat — eh, 
Freda  ? 


I--«'V*-#v»^   C^JvaiX" 


6  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  i 

Christine.  [Moving  with  her  husband  towards  the 
dravdng-room]  Young  Dunning  won't  many  that  girl, 
Ronny. 

Keith.  Phew!  Wouldn't  be  in  his  shoes,  then!  Sir 
William '11  never  keep  a  servant  who's  made  a  scandal 
in  the  village,  old  girl.     Bill  come  ? 

As  they  disappear  from  the  hall,  John  Latter 

in  a  clergyman's  evening  dress,  coTnes  sedately 

dovmstairs,  a  toll,  rather  pale  young  man,  with 

something  in  him,  as  it  were,  both  of  heaven, 

and  a  drawing-room.     He  passes  Freda  vxiih  a 

formal  little  nod.     Harold,  a  fresh-cheeked, 

cheery-looking  youth,  <xnnes  dovm,  three  steps 

at  a  time. 

Harold.  Hallo,  Freda!    Patience  on  the  monument. 

Let's  have  a  sniff!     For  Miss  Lanfame?    Bill  come 

down  yet? 

Freda.  No,  Mr.  Harold. 

Harold  crosses  ifie  hall,  whistling,  and  foUo^vs 
Latter  into  the  drawing-room.  There  is  the 
sound  of  a  scuffle  above,  and  a  voice  crying: 
"Shut  up.  Dot!"  And  Joan  comes  doivn screw- 
ing her  head  back.  She  is  pretty  and  smxill, 
with  large  clinging  eyes. 
Joan.  Am  I  all  right  behind,  Freda?  That  beast. 
Dot! 

Freda.  Quite,  Miss  Joan. 

Dot's  face,  like  a  full  mngn,  appears  over  the 
upper  banisters.  She  too  comes  running  down, 
a  frank  figure,  with  the  face  of  a  rebel. 


8c.  I  THE  ELDEST  SON  7 

Dot.  You  little  being  I 

Joan.  [Flying  towards  the  drawing-room,  is  overtaken 
at  the  door]  Oh!  Dot!  You're  pinching! 

As  they  disappear  into  the  drawing-room,  Ma- 
bel Lanfarne,  a  tall  girl  wiih  a  rather  charm- 
ing Irish  face,  comes  slowly  down.  And  at  sight 
of  her  Freda's  whole  -figure  becomes  set  and 
meaning-full. 
Freda.  For  you,  Miss  Lanfarne,  from  my  lady. 
Mabel.  [In  whose  speech  is  a  touch  of  wilful  Irishry] 
How  sweet!    [Fastening  the  roses]  And  how  are  you, 
Freda  ? 

Freda.  Very  well,  thank  you. 

Mabel.  And  your  father?    Hope  he's  going  to  let 
me  come  out  with  the  guns  again. 

Freda.  [Stolidly]  He'll  be  delighted,  I'm  sure. 
Mabel.  Ye-es!    I  haven't  forgotten  his  face — last 
time. 

Freda.  You  stood  with  Mr.  Bill.     He's  better  to 
stand  with  than  Mr.  Harold,  or  Captain  Keith? 
Mabel.  He  didn't  touch  a  feather,  that  day. 
Freda.  People  don't  when  they're  anxious  to  do  their 
best. 

A  gong  sounds.  And  Mabel  Lanfarne,  giving 
Freda  a  rather  inquisitive  stare,  moves  on  to  the 
drawing-room,.  Left  alone  without  the  roses, 
Freda  still  lingers.  At  the  slamming  of  a  door 
above,  and  hasty  footsteps,  she  shrinks  back 
against  the  stairs.  Bill  runs  down,  and  comes 
on  her  suddenly.     He  is  a  tall,  good-looking 


8  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  i 

edition  of  his  father,  with  the  same  stubborn 

look  of  veiled  choler. 

Bill.  Freda!  [And  as  she  shrinks  still  further  back] 

What's  the  matter  ?  [Then  at  some  sound  he  looks  round 

uneasily  and  draws  away  from  her]  Aren't  you  glad  to 

see  me? 

Freda.  I've   something  to  say  to  you,   Mr.   Bill. 
After  dinner. 

Bill.  Mister ? 

She  passes  him,  and  rushes  away  upstairs.  And 
Bill,  who  stands  frowning  and  looJcing  after 
her,  recovers  himself  sharply  as  the  drawing- 
room  door  is  opened,  and  Sir  William  and 
Miss  Lanfarne  come  forth,  followed  by 
Keith,  Dot,  Harold,  Christine,  Latter, 
and  Joan,  all  leaning  across  each  other,  and 
talking.  By  herself,  behind  them,  comes  Lady 
Cheshire,  a  refined-looking  woman  of  fifty, 
with  silvery  dark  hair,  and  an  expression  at 
once  gentle,  and  ironic.  They  move  across  the 
hall  towards  the  dining-room. 

Sir  William.  Ah!  Bill, 

Mabel.  How  do  you  do  ? 

Keith.  How  are  you,  old  chap  ? 

Dot.  [gloomily]  Do  you  know  your  part  ? 

Harold.  Hallo,  old  man! 

Christine  gives  her  brother  a  flying  kiss.  Joan 
and  Latter  pause  and  look  at  him  shyly  wiih- 
ovt  speech. 


sc.  n  THE  ELDEST  SON  9 

Bill.  [Putting  his  Jiand  on  Joan's  shoulder]  Good 
luck,  you  two!     Well  mother? 

Lady  Cheshire.  Well,  my  dear  boy!    Nice  to  see 
you  at  last.     What  a  long  time! 

She  draws  his  arm  through  hers,  and  they  move 
towards  the  dining-room. 

The  curtain  falls. 
The  curtain  rises  again  at  once. 


SCENE  II 

Christine,  Lady  Cheshire,  Dot,  Mabel  Lanfarne, 
and  Joan,  are  returning  to  the  hall  after  dinner. 

Christine.  \in  a  low  voice]  Mother,  is  it  true  about 
young  Dunning  and  Rose  Taylor  ? 

Lady  Cheshire.  I'm  afraid  so,  dear. 

Christine.  But  can't  they  be 

Dot.  Ah!   ah-h!   [Christine   and   her   mother  are 
silent.]  My  child,  I'm  not  the  young  person. 

Christine.  No,  of  course  not — only — [nodding  to- 
wards Joan  and  Mabel]. 

Dot.  Look  here!   This  is  just  an  instance  of  what  I 
hate. 

Lady  Cheshire.  My  dear  ?    Another  one  ? 

Dot.  Yes,  mother,  and  don't  you  pretend  you  don't 
understand,  because  you  know  you  do. 

Christine.  Instance?    Of  what? 

Joan  and  Mabel  have  ceased  talking,  and  listen, 
still  at  the  fire. 


10  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  i 

Dot.  Humbug,  of  course.  Why  should  you  want 
them  to  marry,  if  he's  tired  of  her? 

Christine.  [Ironically]  Well!  If  your  imagination 
doesn't  carry  you  as  far  as  that! 

Dot.  When  people  marry,  do  you  believe  they  ought 
to  be  in  love  with  each  other? 

Christine.  [With  a  shrug]  That's  not  the  point. 

Dot.  Oh  ?    Were  you  in  love  with  Ronny  ? 

Christine.  Don't  be  idiotic! 

Dot.  Would  you  have  married  him  if  you  hadn't 
been? 

Christine.  Of  course  not! 

Joan.  Dot!    You  are! 

Dot.  Hallo!  my  little  snipe! 

Lady  Cheshire.  Dot,  dear! 

Dot.  Don't  shut  me  up,  mother!  [To  Joan.]  Are 
you  in  love  with  John  ?  [Joan  turns  hurriedly  to  the 
fire.]  Would  you  be  going  to  marry  him  if  you  were 
not? 

Christine.  You  are  a  brute,  Dot. 

Dot.  Is  Mabel  in  love  with — whoever  she  is  in  love 
with? 

Mabel.  And  I  wonder  who  that  is. 

Dot.  Well,  would  you  marry  him  if  you  weren't  ? 

Mabel.  No,  I  would  not. 

Dot.  Now,  mother;  did  you  love  father  ? 

Christine.  Dot,  you  really  are  awful. 

Dot.  [Rueful  and  detached]  Well,  it  is  a  bit  too  thick, 
perhaps. 

Joan.  Dot! 


sen  THE  ELDEST  SON  11 

Dot.  Well,  mother,  did  you — I  mean  quite  calmly  ? 

Lady  Cheshire.  Yes,  dear,  quite  calmly. 

Dot.  Would  you  have  married  him  if  you  hadn't? 
[Lady  Cheshire  shakes  her  head]  Then  we're  all 
agreed! 

Mabel.  Except  yourself. 

Dot.  [Grimly]  Even  if  I  loved  him,  he  might  think 
himself  lucky  if  I  married  him. 

Mabel.  Indeed,  and  I'm  not  so  sure. 

Dot.  [Making  a  face  at  her]  What  I  was  going  to 

Lady  Cheshire.  But  don't  you  think,  dear,  you'd 
better  not  ? 

Dot.  Well,  I  won't  say  what  I  was  going  to  say,  but 
what  I  do  say  is — Why  the  devil 

Lady  Cheshire.  Quite  so.  Dot! 

Dot.  [A  little  disconcerted.]  If  they're  tired  of  each 
other,  they  ought  not  to  marry,  and  if  father's  going  to 
make  them 

Christine.  You  don't  understand  in  the  least.  It's 
for  the  sake  of  the 

Dot.  Out  with  it.  Old  Sweetness!  The  approaching 
infant!    God  bless  it! 

There  is  a  sudden  silence,  for  Keith  and  Latter 
are  seen  coming  from  the  dining-room. 

Latter.  That  must  be  so,  Ronny. 

Keith.  No,  John;  not  a  bit  of  it! 

Latter.  You  don't  think ! 

Keith.  Good  Gad,  who  wants  to  think  after  dinner! 

Dot.  Come  on!  Let's  play  pool.  [She  turns  at  the 
biUiard-room  door.]  Look  here!   Rehearsal  to-morrow  is 


12  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  i 

directly  after  breakfast;    from  "Eccles  enters  breath- 
less" to  the  end. 

Mabel.  Whatever  made  you  choose  "Caste,"  Dot? 
You  know  it's  awfully  diflBcult. 

Dot.  Because  it's  the  only  play  that's  not  too  ad- 
vanced. [The  girls  all  go  into  the  hilliard-room. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Where's  Bill,  Ronny  ? 

Keith.  [With  a  grimace]  I  rather  think  Sir  William 
and  he  are  in  Committee  of  Supply — Mem-Sahib. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Oh! 

She  looks  uneasily  at  the  dining-room;  then  fol- 
lows the  girls  out. 

Latter.  [In  the  tone  of  one  resuming  an  argum£nt] 
There  can't  be  two  opinions  about  it,  Ronny.  Young 
Dunning's  refusal  is  simply  indefensible. 

Keith.  I  don't  agree  a  bit,  John. 

LATTBai.  Of  course,  if  you  won't  listen. 

Keith.  [Clipping  a  cigar]  Draw  it  mild,  my  dear 
chap.     We've  had  the  whole  thing  over  twice  at  least. 

Latter.  My  point  is  this 

Keith.  [Regarding  Latter  quizzically  with  his  half- 
closed  eyes]  I  know — I  know — but  the  point  is,  how  far 
your  point  is  simply  professional. 

Latter.  If  a  man  wrongs  a  woman,  he  ought  to  right 
her  again.     There's  no  answer  to  that. 

Keith.  It  all  depends. 

Latter.  That's  rank  opportunism. 

Keith.  Rats!  Look  here — Oh!  hang  it,  John,  one 
can't  argue  this  out  with  a  parson. 

Latter.  [Frigidly]  Why  not  ? 


sc.  II  THE  ELDEST  SON  13 

Harold.  [Who  lias  entered  from  the  dining-room] 
Pull  devil,  pull  baker! 

Keith.  Shut  up,  Harold! 

Latter.  "To  play  the  game"  is  the  religion  even  of 
the  Army. 

Keith.  Exactly,  but  what  is  the  game  ? 

Latter.  What  else  can  it  be  in  this  case  ? 

Keith.  You're  too  puritanical,  young  John.  You 
can't  help  it — line  of  country  laid  down  for  you.  All 
drag-huntin'!    What! 

Latter.  [With  concentration]  Look  here! 

ELarold.  [Imitating  the  action  of  a  man  pulling  at  a 
horse's  head]  'Come  hup,  I  say,  you  hugly  beast!' 

Keith.  [To  Latter]  You're  not  going  to  draw  me, 
old  chap.  You  don't  see  where  you'd  land  us  all.  [He 
smokes  calmly] 

Latter.  How  do  you  imagine  vice  takes  its  rise  ? 
From  precisely  this  sort  of  thing  of  young  Dunning's. 

Keith.  From  human  nature,  I  should  have  thought, 
John.  I  admit  that  I  don't  like  a  fellow's  leavin'  a  girl 
in  the  lurch;  but  I  don't  see  the  use  in  drawin'  hard  and 
fast  rules.  You  only  have  to  break  'em.  Sir  William 
and  you  would  just  tie  Dunning  and  the  girl  up  together, 
willy-nilly,  to  save  appearances,  and  ten  to  one  but 
there'll  be  the  deuce  to  pay  in  a  year's  time.  You  can 
take  a  horse  to  the  water,  you  can't  make  him  drink. 

Latter.  I  entirely  and  absolutely  disagree  with  you. 

Harold.  Good  old  John! 

Latter.  At  all  events  yf^  know  where  your  princi- 
ples take  you. 


14  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  i 

Keith.  [Rather  dangerously]  Where,  please  ?  [Harold 
turns  up  his  eyes,  and  points  dovmwards]  Dry  up, 
Harold! 

Latter.  Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  Faust  ? 
Keith.  Now  look  here,  John;   with  all  due  respect 
to  your  cloth,  and  all  the  politeness  in  the  world,  you 
may  go  to — ^blazes. 

Latter.  Well,  I  must  say,  Ronny — of  all  the  rude 

boors [He  turns  towards  the  billiard-room. 

Keith.  Sorry  I  smashed  the  glass,  old  chap. 

Latter  parses  ovi.    There  comes  a  mingled  sound 
through  the  opened  door,  of  female  voices,  laugh- 
ter, and  the  click  of  billiard  balls,  clipped  off  by 
the  sudden  closing  of  the  door. 
Keith.  [Impersonally]  Deuced  odd,  the  way  a  par- 
son puts  one's  back  up!    Because  you  know  I  agree 
with  him  really;    young  Dunning  ought  to  play  the 
game;  and  I  hope  Sir  William '11  make  him. 

The  butler  Jackson  has  entered  from  the  door 
under  the  stairs  followed  by  the  keeper  Stud- 
DENHAM,  a  man  between  fifty  and  sixty,  in  a 
full-skirted  coat  with  big  pockets,  cord  breeches, 
and  gaiters;  he  has  a  steady  self-respecting  weath- 
ered face,  with  blue  eyes  and  a  short  grey  beard, 
which  has  obviously  once  been  red. 
Keith.  Hullo!    Studdenham! 

Studdenham.  [Touching  his  forehead]  Evenin', 
Captain  Keith. 

Jackson.  Sir  William  still  in  the  dining-room  with 
Mr.  Bill,  sir? 


sc.  n  THE  ELDEST  SON  15 

BL\BOLD.  [With  a  grimace]  He  is,  Jackson. 

Jackson  goes  out  to  the  dining-room. 

Keith.  You've  shot  no  pheasants  yet,  Studdenham  ? 

Studdenham.  No,  sir.  Ordy  birds.  We'll  be  doin' 
the  spinneys  and  the  home  covert  while  you're  down. 

Keith.  I  say,  talkin'  of  spinneys 

He  breaks  off  sharply,  and  goes  out  with  Harold 
into  the  billiard-room.  Sir  William  enters 
from  the  dining-room,  applying  a  gold  tooth- 
pick to  his  front  teeth. 

Sir  William.  Ah!  Studdenham.  Bad  business  this, 
about  young  Dimning! 

Studdenham.  Yes,  Sir  William. 

Sir  William.  He  definitely  refuses  to  many  her? 

Studdenham.  He  does  that. 

Sir  William.  That  won't  do,  you  know.  What  rea- 
son does  he  give  ? 

Studdenham.  Won't  say  other  than  that  he  don't 
want  no  more  to  do  with  her. 

Sir  William.  God  bless  me!  That's  not  a  reason. 
I  can't  have  a  keeper  of  mine  playing  fast  and  loose  in 
the  village  like  this.  [Turning  to  Lady  Cheshire,  who 
has  come  in  from,  the  billiard-room]  That  affair  of  young 
Dunning's,  my  dear. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Oh!  Yes!  I'm  so  sorry,  Studden- 
ham.    The  poor  girl! 

Studdenham.  [Respectfully]  Fancy  he's  got  a  feeling 
she's  not  his  equal,  now,  my  lady. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [To  herself]  Yes,  I  suppose  he  ^a»  I 
made  her  his  superior. 


16  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  i 

Sir  William.  What?  Eh!  Quite!  Quite!  I  was 
just  telling  Studdenham  the  fellow  must  set  the  matter 
straight.  We  can't  have  open  scandals  in  the  village. 
If  he  wants  to  keep  his  place  he  must  marry  her  at 
once. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [To  her  husband  in  a  low  voice]  Is 
it  right  to  force  them?  Do  you  know  what  the  girl 
wishes,  Studdenham? 

Studdenham.  Shows  a  spirit,  my  lady — says  she'll 
have  him — willin'  or  not. 

Lady  Cheshire.  A  spirit  ?  I  see.  If  they  marry  like 
that  they're  sure  to  be  miserable. 

Sir  William.  What!  Doesn't  follow  at  all.  Besides, 
my  dear,  you  ought  to  know  by  this  time,  there's  an  un- 
written law  in  these  matters.  They're  perfectly  well 
aware  that  when  there  are  consequences,  they  have  to 
take  them. 

Studdenham.  Some  o'  these  young  people,  my  lady, 
they  don't  put  two  and  two  together  no  more  than  an 
old  cock  pheasant. 

Sir  William.  I'll  give  him  till  to-morrow.  If  he  re- 
mains obstinate,  he'll  have  to  go;  he'll  get  no  character, 
Studdenham.  Let  him  know  what  I've  said.  I  like 
the  fellow,  he's  a  good  keeper.  I  don't  want  to  lose 
him.  But  this  sort  of  thing  I  won't  have.  He  must  toe 
the  mark  or  take  himself  off.     Is  he  up  here  to-night  ? 

Studden:ham.  Hangin'  partridges.  Sir  William.  Will 
you  have  him  in  ? 

Sir.  William.  [Hesitating]  Yes — ^yes.     I'll  see  him. 

Studdenham.  Good-night  to  you,  my  lady. 


sen  THE  ELDEST  SON  17 

Lady  Cheshire.  Freda's  not  looking  well,  Studden- 
ham. 

Studdenham,  She's  a  bit  pernickitty  with  her  food, 
that's  where  it  is. 

Lady  Cheshire.  I  must  try  and  make  her  eat. 

Sir  William.  Oh!  Studdenham.  We'll  shoot  the 
home  covert  first.     What  did  we  get  last  year? 

Studdenham.  [Producing  the  game-book;  but  with- 
out reference  to  it\  Two  hundred  and  fifty-three  pheas- 
ants, eleven  hares,  fifty-two  rabbits,  three  woodcock, 
sundry. 

Sir  William.  Sundry  ?  Didn't  include  a  fox  did  it  ? 
\Gravely\  I  was  seriously  upset  this  morning  at  Warn- 
ham's  spinney 

Studdenham.  [Very  gravely]  You  don't  say.  Sir 
William;  that  four-year-old  he  du  look  a  handful! 

Sir  William.  \Wilh  a  sharp  look]  You  know  well 
enough  what  I  mean. 

Studdenham.  {Unmoved]  Shall  I  send  young  Dun- 
ning, Sir  William  ? 

Sir  William  gives  a  short,  sharp  nod,  and  Stud- 
denham retires  by  the  door  under  the  stairs. 

Sir  William.  Old  fox! 

Lady  Cheshire.  Don't  be  too  hard  on  Dunning. 
He's  very  young. 

Sir  William.  [Paiting  her  ami]  My  dear,  you  don't 
understand  young  fellows,  how  should  you  ? 

Lady  Cheshire.  \With  her  faint  irony]  A  husband 
and  two  sons  not  counting.  [Then  as  the  door  under 
the  stairs  is  opened]  Bill,  now  do 


18  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  i 

Sir  William.  I'll  be  gentle  with  him.  [Sharply] 
Come  in! 

Lady  Cheshire  retires  to  the  billiard-room.  She 
gives  a  look  back  and  a  half  smile  at  young 
Dunning,  a  fair  young  man  dressed  in  brown 
cords  and  leggings,  and  holding  his  cap  in  his 
hand;  then  goes  out. 

Sir  William.  Evenin',  Dunning. 

Dunning.  [Twisting  his  cap]  Evenin',  Sir  William. 
\     Sir  William.  Studdenham's  told  you  what  I  want 
to  see  you  about  ? 

Dunning.  Yes,  Sir. 

Sir  William.  The  thing's  in  your  hands.  Take  it  or 
leave  it.  I  don't  put  pressure  on  you.  I  simply  won't 
have  this  sort  of  thing  on  my  estate. 

Dunning.  I'd  like  to  say.  Sir  William,  that  she — 
[He  stops]. 

Sir  William.  Yes,  I  daresay — ^Six  of  one  and  half  a 
dozen  of  the  other.     Can't  go  into  that. 

Dunning.  No,  Sir  William. 

Sir  William.  I'm  quite  mild  with  you.  This  is  your 
first  place.     If  you  leave  here  you'll  get  no  character. 

Dunning.  I  never  meant  any  harm,  sir. 

Sir  William.  My  good  fellow,  you  know  the  custom 
of  the  country. 

Dunning.  Yes,  Sir  William,  but 

Sir  William.  You  should  have  looked  before  you 
leaped.  I'm  not  forcing  you.  If  you  refuse  you  must 
go,  that's  all. 

Dunning.  Yes,  Sir  William. 


sc.  II  THE  ELDEST  SON  19 

Sir  William.  Well,  now  go  along  and  take  a  day  to 
think  it  over. 

Bill,  who  has  sauntered  moodily  from  the  dining- 
room,  stands  by  the  stairs  listening.     Catching 
sight  of  him.  Dunning  raises  his  hand  to  his 
forelock. 
Dunning.  Very  good,  Sir  William.  [He  turns,  fum- 
bles, and  turns  agair{\  My  old  mother's  dependent  on 

me 

Sib  William.  Now,  Dunning,  I've  no  more  to  say. 

[Dunning  goes  sadly  away  under  the  stairs. 
Sib    William.  [FoUovnng]  And    look    here!    Just 

understand  this [He  too  goes  out. 

Bill,  lighting  a  cigarette,  has  approached  the 

writing-table.     He  looks  very  glum.    The  bill- 

iardr-room  door  is  flung  open.    Mabel  Lan- 

farne  appears,  and  makes  him  a  little  curtsey. 

Mabel.  Against  my  will  I  am  bidden  to  bring  you 

in  to  pool. 

Bill,  Sorry!    I've  got  letters. 

Mabel.  You  seem  to  have  become  very  conscien- 
tious. 

Bill.  Oh!  I  don't  know. 

Mabel.  Do  you  remember  the  last  day  of  the  covert 
shooting  ? 
Bill.  I  do. 

Mabel.  [Suddenly]  What  a  pretty  girl  Freda  Stud- 
denham's  grown! 
Bill.  Has  she  ? 
Mabel.  "She  walks  in  beauty." 


20  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  i 

Biiiii.  Really?    Hadn't  noticed. 

Mabel.  Have  you  been  taking  lessons  in  conversa- 
tion? 

Bill.  Don't  think  so. 

Mabel.  Oh!  [There  is  a  silence]  Mr.  Cheshire! 

Bill.  Miss  Lanfame! 

Mabel.  What's  the  matter  with  you?  Aren't  you 
rather  queer,  considering  that  I  don't  bite,  and  was 
rather  a  pal! 

Bill.  [Stolidly]  I'm  sorry. 

Then  seeing  that  his  mother  has  come  in  from  the 
billiard-room,  he  sits  down  at  the  writing-table. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Mabel,  dear,  do  take  my  cue. 
Won't  you  play  too,  Bill,  and  try  and  stop  Ronny,  he's 
too  terrible  ? 

Bill.  Thanks.    I've  got  these  letters. 

Mabel  taking  the  cue  passes  back  into  the  billiard- 
room,  whence  comes  out  the  sound  of  talk  and 
laughter. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Going  over  and  standing  behind 
her  son's  chair]  Anything  wrong,  darling? 

Bill.  Nothing,  thanks.  [Suddenly]  I  say,  I  wish  you 
hadn't  asked  that  girl  here. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Mabel!  Why  ?  She's  wanted  for 
rehearsals.  I  thought  you  got  on  so  well  with  her  last 
Christmas. 

Bill.  [With  a  sort  of  sullen  exasperation]  A  year  ago. 

Lady  Cheshire.  The  girls  like  her,  so  does  your 
father;  personally  I  must  say  I  think  she's  rather  nice 
and  Irish. 


sc.  u  THE  ELDEST  SON  21 

Bill.  She's  all  right,  I  daresay. 

He  looks  round  as  if  to  show  his  mother  that  he 
wishes  to  be  left  alone.  Bvt  Lady  Cheshire, 
having  seen  that  he  is  about  to  look  at  her,  is 
not  looking  at  him. 

Lady  Cheshire.  I'm  afraid  your  father's  been  talk- 
ing to  you,  Bill. 

Bill.  He  has. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Debts?  Do  try  and  make  allow- 
ances.   [With  a  faint  smile]  Of  course  he  is  a  little 

Bill.  He  is. 

Lady  Cheshire.  I  wish  I  could 

Bill.  Oh,  Lord!    Don't  you  get  mixed  up  in  it! 

Lady  Cheshire.  It  seems  almost  a  pity  that  you 
told  him. 

Bill.  He  wrote  and  asked  me  p>oint  blank  what  I 
owed. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Oh!  [Forcing  herself  to  speak  in  a 

casual  voice]  I  happen  to  have  a  little  money.  Bill 

I  think  it  would  be  simpler  if 

Bill.  Now  look  here,  mother,  you've  tried  that  be- 
fore. I  can't  help  spending  money,  I  never  shall  be 
able,  unless  I  go  to  the  Colonic  ,  or  something  of  the 
kind. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Don't  talk  like  that,  dear! 

Bill.  I  loould,  for  two  straws! 

Lady  Cheshire.  It's  only  because  your  father  thinks 
such  a  lot  of  the  place,  and  the  name,  and  your  career. 
The  Cheshires  are  all  like  that.  They've  been  here  so 
long;  they're  all — root. 


S2  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  i 

Bill.  Deuced  fxuiny  business  my  career  will  be,  I 
expect! 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Fluttering,  bid  restraining  herself 
lest  he  should  see]  But,  Bill,  why  muM  you  spend  more 
than  your  allowance  ? 

Bill.  Why — anything  ?    I  didn't  make  myself. 
Lady  Cheshire.  I'm  afraid  we  did  that.    It  was  in- 
considerate, perhaps. 

Bill.  Yes,  you'd  better  have  left  me  out. 
Lady  Cheshire.  But  why  are  you  so —    Only  a 
little  fuss  about  money! 
Bill.  Ye-es. 

Lady  Cheshire.  You're  not  keeping  anything  from 
me,  are  you  ? 

Bill.  [Facing  her]  No.  [He  then  turns  very  deliber- 
ately to  the  writing  things,  and  takes  up  a  pen]  I  must 
write  these  letters,  please. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Bill,  if  there's  any  real  trouble,  you 
will  tell  me,  won't  you  ? 

Bill.  There's  nothing  whatever. 

He  suddenly  gets  up  and  walks  about. 
Lady  Cheshire,  too,  moves  over  to  the  fireplace, 
and  after  an  uneasy  look  at  him,  turns  to  the 
fire.     Then,  as  if  trying  to  switch  off  his  mood, 
she  changes  the  subject  abruptly. 
Lady  Cheshire.  Isn't  it  a  pity  about  young  Dun- 
ning ?    I'm  so  sorry  for  Rose  Taylor. 

There  is  a  silence.  Stealthily  under  the  staircase 
Freda  has  entered,  and  seeing  only  Bill,  ad- 
vances to  speak  to  him. 


sc.  n  THE  ELDEST  SON  «S 

Bill.  [Svddenly]  Oh!  well,  you  can't  help  these 
things  in  the  country. 

As  he  speaks,  Freda  stops  dead,  perceiving  that 
he  is  not  alone;  Bill,  too,  catching  sight  of  her, 
starts. 
Lady  Cheshire.  [Still  speaking  to  the  fire]  It  seems 
dreadful  to  force  him.     I  do  so  believe  in  people  doing 
things  of  their  own  accord.     [Then  seeing  Freda  stand- 
ing so  uncertainly  by  the  stairs]  Do  you  want  me,  Freda  ? 
Freda.  Only  your  cloak,  my  lady.  Shall  I — begin  it  ? 
At  this  moment  Sir  William  enters  from  the 
dravnng-room. 
Lady  Cheshire.  Yes,  yes. 

Sir  William.  [Genially]  Can  you  give  me  another 
five  minutes,  Bill  ?  [Pointing  to  the  billiard-room]  We'll 
come  directly,  my  dear. 

Freda,  vnih  a  look  at  Bill,  has  gone  back  whence 

she  came;  and  Lady  Cheshire  goes  reluctantly 

away  into  the  billiard-room. 

Sm  William.  I  shall  give  young  Dunning  short 

shrift.    [He  moves  over  to  the  fireplace  and  divides  his 

coat-tails]  Now,  about  you.  Bill!    I  don't  want  to  bully 

you  the  moment  you  come  down,  but  you  know,  this 

can't  go  on,     I've  paid  your  debts  twice.     Shan't  pay 

them  this  time  unless  I  see  a  disposition  to  change  your 

mode  of  life.     [A  pause]  You  get  your  extravagance 

from  your  mother.    She's  very  queer — [A  pause] — All 

the  Winterleghs  are  like  that  about  money. 

Bill.  Mother's  particularly  generous,  if  that's  what 
you  mean. 


24  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  i 

Sir  William.  [Drily]  We  will  put  it  that  way.  [A 
pause]  At  the  present  moment  you  owe,  as  I  under- 
stand it,  eleven  hundred  pounds. 

Bill.  About  that. 

Sir  William.  Mere  flea-bite.  [A  pause]  I've  a  prop- 
osition to  make. 

Bill.  Won't  it  do  to-morrow,  sir? 

Sir  William.  "To-morrow"  appears  to  be  your 
motto  in  life. 

Bill.  Thanks! 

Sir  William.  I'm  anxious  to  change  it  to-day.  [Bill 
looks  at  him  in  silence]  It's  time  you  took  your  position 
seriously,  instead  of  hanging  about  town,  racing,  and 
playing  polo,  and  what  not. 

Bill.  Go  ahead! 

At  something  dangerous  in  his  voice.  Sir  William 
modifies  his  attitude. 

Sir  William.  The  proposition's  very  simple.  I  can't 
suppose  anything  so  rational  and  to  your  advantage  will 
appeal  to  you,  but  [drUy]  I  mention  it.  Many  a  nice 
girl,  settle  down,  and  stand  for  the  division;  you  can 
have  the  Dower  House  and  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  and 
I'll  pay  your  debts  into  the  bargain.  If  you're  elected 
I'll  make  it  two  thousand.  Plenty  of  time  to  work  up 
the  constituency  before  we  kick  out  these  infernal  Rads. 
Carpet-bagger  against  you;  if  you  go  hard  at  it  in  the 
summer,  it'll  be  odd  if  you  don't  manage  to  get  in  your 
three  days  a  week,  next  season.  You  can  take  Rocketer 
and  that  four-year-old — he's  well  up  to  your  weight. 


sc.  n  THE  ELDEST  SON  25 

fully  eight  and  a  half  inches  of  bone.  You'll  only  want 
one  other.    And  if  Miss — if  your  wife  means  to  hunt 

Bill.  You've  chosen  my  wife,  then  ? 

Sir  William.  [With  a  quick  look]  I  imagine,  you've 
some  girl  in  your  mind. 

Bill.  Ah! 

Sib  William.  Used  not  to  be  unnatural  at  your  age. 
I  married  your  mother  at  twenty-eight.  Here  you  are, 
eldest  son  of  a  family  that  stands  for  something.  The 
more  I  see  of  the  times  the  more  I'm  convinced  that 
everybody  who  is  anybody  has  got  to  buckle  to,  and  save 
the  landmarks  left.  Unless  we're  true  to  our  caste,  and 
prepared  to  work  for  it,  the  landed  classes  are  going  to 
go  under  to  this  infernal  democratic  spirit  in  the  air. 
The  outlook's  very  serious.  We're  threatened  in  a  hun- 
dred ways.  If  you  mean  business,  you'll  want  a  wife. 
W^hen  I  came  into  the  property  I  should  have  been  lost 
without  your  mother. 

Bill.  I  thought  this  was  coming. 

Sir  William.  [With  a  certain  geniaUij]  My  dear 
fellow,  I  don't  want  to  put  a  pistol  to  your  head.  You've 
had  a  slack  rein  so  far.  I've  never  objected  to  your 
sowing  a  few  wild  oats — so  long  as  you — er — [Unseen 
by  Sir  William,  Bill  makes  a  sudden  movement]  Short 
of  that — at  all  events,  I've  not  inquired  into  your  affairs. 
I  can  only  judge  by  the — er — pecuniary  evidence  you've 
been  good  enough  to  afford  me  from  time  to  time.  I 
imagine  you've  lived  like  a  good  many  young  men  in 
your  position — I'm  not  blaming  you,  but  there's  a  time 
for  all  things. 


26  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  i 

Bill.  Why  don't  you  say  outright  that  you  want  me 
to  many  Mabel  Lanfame  ? 

Sib  William.  Well,  I  do.  Girl's  a  nice  one.  Good 
family — got  a  little  money — rides  well.  Isn't  she  good- 
looking  enough  for  you,  or  what  ? 

Bill.  Quite,  thanks. 

Sir  William.  I  understood  from  your  mother  that 
you  and  she  were  on  good  terms. 

Bill.  Please  don't  drag  mother  into  it. 

Sir  William.  [With  dangerous  politeness]  Perhaps 
you'll  be  good  enough  to  state  your  objections. 

Bill.  Must  we  go  on  with  this  ? 

Sir  William.  I've  never  asked  you  to  do  anything 
for  me  before;  I  expect  you  to  pay  attention  now.  I've 
no  wish  to  dragoon  you  into  this  particular  marriage. 
If  you  don't  care  for  Miss  Lanfame,  marry  a  giri  you're 
fond  of. 

Bill.  I  refuse. 

Sir  William.  In  that  case  you  know  what  to  look 
out  for.  [With  a  sudden  rush  ofcholer]  You  young  .  .  . 
[He  checks  himself  and  stands  glaring  at  Bill,  who 
glares  back  at  him]  This  means,  I  suppose,  that  you've 
got  some  entanglement  or  other. 

Bill.  Suppose  what  you  like,  sir. 

Sir  William.  I  warn  you,  if  you  play  the  black- 
guard  

Bill.  You  can't  force  me  like  young  Dunning. 

Hearing  the  raised  voices  Lady  Cheshire  has 
come  hack  from  the  billiard^room. 

Ladt  Cheshire.  [Closing  the  door]  What  is  it? 


sc.  n  THE  ELDEST  SON  27 

Sib  William.  You  deliberately  refuse!    Go  away, 
Dorothy. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [ResoltUely]  I  haven't  seen  BiU  for 
two  months. 

Sib    William.  What!  [Hesitating]  Well — we    must 
talk  it  over  again. 

Lady  Cheshibe.  Come  to  the  billiard-room,  both  of 
you!    Bill,  do  finish  those  letters! 

With  a  deft  movement  she  draws  Sib  William 
toward  the  billiard-room,  and  glances  back  at 
Bill  before  going  out,  but  he  has  turned  to  the 
writing-table.  When  the  door  is  closed.  Bill 
looks  into  tne  drawing-room,  then  opens  the  door 
under  the  stairs;  and  backing  away  towards  the 
writing-table,  sits  down  there,  and  takes  up  a 
pen.  Fbeda  who  ha^  evidently  been  waiting, 
comes  in  and  stands  by  the  table. 
Bill.  I  say,  this  is  dangerous,  you  know. 
Fbeda.  Yes — but  I  must. 

Bill.  WeU,  then — \With  natural  recklessness]  Aren't 
you  going  to  kiss  me  ? 

Without  moving  she  looks  at  him  with  a  sort  of 
miserable  inquiry. 
Bill.  Do  you  know  you  haven't  seen  me  for  eight 
weeks? 

Freda.  Quite — long  enough — ^for  you  to  have  forgot- 
ten. 
Bill.  Forgotten!    I  don't  forget  people  so  soon. 
Freda.  No? 
Bill.  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Freda  ? 


28  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  i 

Freda.  [Afier  a  long  look]  It'll  never  be  as  it  was. 

Bill.  [Jumping  up]  How  d'you  mean  ? 

Freda.  I've  got  something  for  you.  [She  takes  a 
diamond  ring  out  of  her  dress  and  holds  it  out  to  him] 
I've  not  worn  it  since  Cromer. 

Bill.  Now,  look  here 

Freda.  I've  had  my  holiday;  I  shan't  get  another  in 
a  hurry. 

Bill.  Freda! 

Freda.  You'll  be  glad  to  be  free.  That  fortnight's 
all  you  really  loved  me  in. 

Bill.  [Putting  his  hands  on  her  arms]  I  swear 

Freda.  [Between  her  teeth]  Miss  Lanf  arne  need  never 
know  about  me. 

Bill.  So  that's  it!  I've  told  you  a  dozen  times — 
nothing's  changed.        [Freda  looks  at  him  and  smiles. 

Bill.  Oh!  very  well!  If  you  toill  make  yourself 
miserable. 

Freda.  Everybody  will  be  pleased. 

Bill.  At  what? 

Freda.  When  you  marry  her. 

Bill.  This  is  too  bad. 

Freda.  It's  what  always  happens — even  when  It's  not 
a  gentleman. 

Bill.  That's  enough. 

Freda.  But  I'm  not  like  that  girl  down  in  the  village. 
You  needn't  be  afraid  I'll  say  anything  when — it  comes. 
That's  what  I  had  to  tell  you. 

Bill.  What! 

Freda.  I  can  keep  a  secret. 


sc.  n  THE  ELDEST  SON  29 

Bill.  Do  you  mean  this  ?  [She  bows  her  head. 

Bill.  Good  God! 

Freda.  Father  brought  me  up  not  to  whine.  Like 
the  puppies  when  they  hold  them  up  by  their  tails. 
[With  a  sudden  break  in  her  voice]  Oh!  Bill! 

Bill.  [With  his  head  down,  seizing  her  hands]  Freda ! 
[He  breaks  away  from  her  towards  the  fire]  Good  God! 
She  stands  looking  at  him,  then  quietly  slips  away 
by  the  door  under  the  staircase.     Bill  turns  to 
speak  to  her,  and  sees  thai  she  has  gone.    He 
walks  up  to  the  fireplace,  and  grips  the  mantel- 
piece. 
Bill.  By  Jove!    This  is ! 

The  curtain  falls. 


.ACT  II 

The  scene  is  Lady  Cheshire's  morning  room,  at  ten 
o'clock  on  the  following  day.    It  is  a  pretty  room, 
with  white 'panelled  walls:  and  chrysanthemums  and 
carmine  lilies  in  howls.    A  large  how  window  over- 
looks the  park  under  a  sou'-westerly  sky.    A  piano 
stands  open;  a  fire  is  burning;  and  the  morning's 
correspondence  is  scattered  on  a  writing-table.   Doors 
opposite  each  other  lead  to  the  maid's  workroom,  and 
to  a  corridor.    Lady  Cheshire  is  standing  in  tJie 
middle  of  the  room,  looking  at  an  opera  doak,  which 
Freda  is  holding  out. 
Lady  Cheshire.  Well,  Freda,  suppose  you  just  give 
it  up! 
Freda.  I  don't  like  to  be  beaten. 
Ladt  Cheshire.  You're  not  to  worry  over  your 
work.    And  by  the  way,  I  promised  your  father  to 
make  you  eat  more.  [Freda  smiles. 

Lady  Cheshire.  It's  all  very  well  to  smile.  You 
want  bracing  up.  Now  don't  be  naughty.  I  shall 
give  you  a  tonic.  And  I  think  you  had  better  put  that 
cloak  away. 
Freda.  I'd  rather  have  one  more  try,  my  lady. 
Lady  Cheshire.  {Sitting  down  at  her  toriiing-table] 
Very  well. 

Freda  goes  out  into  her  workroom,  as  Jackson 
com,e3  in  from  the  corridor. 
31 


82  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  ii 

Jackson.  Excuse  me,  my  lady.  There's  a  young 
woman  from  the  village,  says  you  wanted  to  see  her. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Rose  Taylor?  Ask  her  to  come 
in.  Oh!  and  Jackson  the  car  for  the  meet  please  at 
half-past  ten. 

Jackson  having  bowed  and  vnthdravm.  Lady 
Cheshire  rises  with  marked  signs  of  nerzxnis- 
ness,  which  she  has  only  jtist  suppressed,  when 
Rose  Taylor,  a  stolid  country  girl,  comes  in 
and  stands  ivaiting  by  the  door. 
Lady  Cheshire.  Well,  Rose.    Do  come  in! 

[Rose  advances  perhaps  a  couple  of  steps. 

Lady  Cheshire.  I  just  wondered  whether  you'd  like 

to  ask  my  advice.    Your  engagement  with  Dunning'g 

broken  off,  isn't  it  ? 

Rose.  Yes — but  I've  told  him  he's  got  to  marry  me. 

Lady  Cheshire.  I  see!    And  you  think  that'll  be 

the  wisest  thing? 

Rose.  [Stolidly]  I  don't  know,  my  lady.     He's  got  to. 
Lady  Cheshire.  I  do  hope  you're  a  little  fond  of 
him  still. 

Rose.  I'm  not.     He  don't  deserve  it. 
Lady  Cheshire.  And — do  you  think  he's  quite  lost 
his  affection  for  you  ? 

Rose.  I  suppose  so,  else  he  wouldn't  treat  me  as  he's 
done.  He's  after  that — that — He  didn't  ought  to  treat 
me  as  if  I  was  dead. 

Lady  Cheshire.  No,  no — of  course.  But  you  vdll 
think  it  all  well  over,  won't  you  ? 


ACTH  THE  ELDEST  SON  33 

Rose.  I've  a-got  nothing  to  think  over,  except  what 
I  know  of. 

Lady  Cheshire.  But  for  you  both  to  many  in  that 
spirit!  You  know  it's  for  life,  Rose.  [Looking  into  her 
face]  I'm  always  ready  to  help  you. 

Rose.  [Dropping  a  very  slight  curtsey]  Thank  you, 
my  lady,  but  I  think  he  ought  to  marry  me.  I've  told 
him  he  ought. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Sighing]  Well,  that's  all  I  wanted 
to  say.  It's  a  question  of  your  self-respect;  I  can't  give 
you  any  real  advice.  But  just  remember  that  if  you 
want  a  friend 

Rose.  [With  a  gulp]  I'm  not  so  'ard,  really.  I  only 
want  him  to  do  what's  right  by  me. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [With  a  little  lift,  of  her  eyebrows — 
gently]  Yes,  yes — ^I  see. 

Rose.  [Glancing  back  at  the  door]  I  don't  like  meet- 
ing the  servants. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Come  along,  I'll  take  you  out 
another  way.      [As  they  reach  the  door.  Dot  comes  in. 

Dot.  [With  a  glance  at  Rose]  Can  we  have  this  room 
for  the  mouldy  rehearsal,  Mother  ? 

Lady  Cheshire.  Yes,  dear,  you  can  air  it  here. 

Holding  the  door  open  for  Rose  she  follows  her 
ovt.  And  Dot,  vnth  a  book  of  "Caste"  in 
her  hand,  arranges  the  room  according  to  a 
diagram. 

Dot.  Chair — chair — table — chair — ^Dash!  Table — 
piano — fire — window!  [Producing  a  pocket  comb]  Comb 
for  Eccles.    Cradle  ? — Cradle — [She  viciously  dumps  a 


84  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  n 

wade-paper  basket  down,  and  drops  a  footstool  into  it] 
Brat!  [Then  reading  from  the  book  gloomily]  "Enter 
Eccles  breathless.  Esther  and  Polly  rise — Esther  puts 
on  lid  of  bandbox."    Bandbox! 

Searching  for  something  to  represent  a  bandbox, 
she  opens  the  viorkroom  door. 

Dot.  Freda? 

Freda  comes  in. 

Dot.  I  say,  Freda.  Anything  the  matter?  You 
seem  awfully  down.  [Freda  does  not  answer. 

Dot.  You  haven't  looked  anything  of  a  lollipop 
lately. 

Freda.  I'm  quite  all  right,  thank  you.  Miss  Dot. 

Dot.  Has  Mother  been  givin'  you  a  tonic  ? 

Freda.  [Smiling  a  little]  Not  yet. 

Dot.  That  doesn't  account  for  it  then,  [With  a 
sudden  warm  impulse]  What  is  it,  Freda  ? 

Freda.  Nothing. 

Dot.  [Switching  off  on  a  different  line  of  thought] 
Are  you  very  busy  this  morning  ? 

Freda.  Only  this  cloak  for  my  lady. 

Dot.  Oh!  that  can  wait.  I  may  have  to  get  you  in 
to  prompt,  if  I  can't  keep  'em  straight.  [Gloomily]  They 
stray  so.     Would  you  mind  ? 

Freda.  [Stolidly]  I  shall  be  very  glad.  Miss  Dot. 

Dot.  [Eyeing  her  dubumsly]  All  right.  Let's  see — 
what  did  I  want  ? 

Joan  has  arme  in. 

Joan.  Look  here.  Dot;  about  the  baby  in  this  scene. 
I'm  sure  I  ought  to  make  more  of  it. 


ACTH  THE  ELDEST  SON  36 

Dot,  Romantic  little  beast!  [She  plucks  the  footstool 
out  by  (me  ear,  and  holds  it  forth]  Let's  see  you  try! 

Joan.  [Recoiling]  But,  Dot,  what  are  we  really  going 
to  have  for  the  baby  ?  I  can't  rehearse  with  that  thing. 
Can't  you  suggest  something,  Freda  ? 

Freda.  Borrow  a  real  one,  Miss  Joan.    There  are 
some  that  don't  count  much. 
Joan.  Freda,  how  horrible! 

Dot.  [Dropping  the  footstool  back  into  the  basket] 
You'll  just  put  up  with  what  you're  given. 

Then  as  Christine  and  Mabel  Lanfarne  come 
in,  Freda  turns  abruptly  and  goes  out. 
Dot.  Buck  up!    Where  are  Bill  and  Harold?  [To 
Joan]  Go  and  find  them,  mouse-cat. 

But  Bill  and  Harold,  followed  by  Latter,  are 
already  in  the  doorway.     They  come  in,  and 
Latter,  stumbling  over  the  waste-paper  basket, 
takes  it  up  to  improve  its  position. 
Dot.  Drop  that  cradle,  John!  [As  he  picks  the  foot- 
stool out  of  it]  Leave  the  baby  in!    Now  then!    Bill, 
you  enter  there!  [She  points  to  the  workroom  door  where 
Bill  and  Mabel  range  themselves  close  to  the  piano; 
while  Harold  goes  to  the  tinndow]  John!  get  off  the 
stage!    Now  then,  "Eccles  enters  breathless,  Esther 
and  Polly  rise."    Wait  a  minute.    I  know  now.  [She 
opens  the  workroom,  door]  Freda,  I  wanted  a  band- 
box. 

Harold.  [Cheerfully]  I  hate  beginning  to  rehearse, 
you  know,  you  feel  such  a  fool. 


86  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  n 

Dot.  [With  her  bandbox — gloomily]  You'll  feel  more 
of  a  fool  when  you  have  begun.  [To  Bill,  who  is  star- 
ing into  the  loorkrooin]  Shut  the  door.    Now. 

[Bill  shitis  the  door. 

Latter.  [Advancing]  Look  here!  I  want  to  clear 
up  a  point  of  psychology  before  we  start. 

Dot.  Good  Lord! 

Latter.  When  I  bring  in  the  milk — ought  I  to  bring 
it  in  seriously — as  if  I  were  accustomed — I  mean,  I 
maintain  that  if  I'm 

Joan.  Oh!  John,  but  I  don't  think  it's  meant  that 
you  should 

Dot,  Shut  up!  Go  back,  John!  Blow  the  milk! 
Begin,  begin,  begin!  Bill! 

Latter.  [Turning  round  and  again  advancing]  But 
I  think  you  vmderrate  the  importance  of  my  entrance 
altogether. 

Mabel.  Oh!  no,  Mr.  Latter! 

Latter.  I  don't  in  the  least  want  to  destroy  the  bal- 
ance of  the  scene,  but  I  do  want  to  be  clear  about  the 
spirit.    What  is  the  spirit  ? 

Dot.  [With  gloom]  Rollicking! 

Latter.  Well,  I  don't  think  so.  We  shall  run  a 
great  risk  with  this  play,  if  we  rollick. 

Dot.  Shall  we?    Now  look  here ! 

Mabel.  [Softly  to  Bill]  Mr.  Cheshire! 

Bill.  [Desperately]  Let's  get  on! 

Dot.  [Waving  Latter  back]  Begin,  begin!    At  last! 
But  Jackson  has  come  in. 


ACT  II  THE  ELDEST  SON  87 

Jackson.  [To  Christine]  Studdenham  says,  M'm,  if 
the  young  ladies  want  to  see  the  spaniel  pups,  he's 
brought  'em  round. 

Joan.  [Starting  up]  Oh!  come  on,  John! 

[She  flies  towards  the  door,  followed  by  Latter. 

Dot.  [Gesticidaiing  with  her  hooTc\  Stop!     You 

[Christine  and  Harold  also  rush  past. 

Dot.  [Despairingly]  First  pick!  [Tearing  her  hair] 
Pigs!    Devils!  [She  rushes  after  them. 

Bill,  and  Mabel  are  left  alone. 

Mabel.  [Mockingly]  And  don't  you  want  one  of  the 
spaniel  pups? 

Bill.  [PainftjRy  reserved  and  sullen,  and  conscious  of 
the  vjorkroom  door]  Can't  keep  a  dog  in  town.  You 
can  have  one,  if  you  like.     The  breeding's  all  right. 

Mabel.  Sixth  pick? 

Bill.  The  girls'll  give  you  one  of  theirs.  They  only 
fancy  they  want  'em. 

Mabel.  [Moving  nearer  to  him,  with  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her]  You  know,  you  remind  me  awfully  of  your 
father.  Except  that  you're  not  nearly  so  polite.  I  don't 
understand  you  English — lords  of  the  soil.  The  way 
you  have  of  disposing  of  your  females.  \Wxth  a  sudden 
change  of  voice]  What  was  the  matter  with  you  last 
night?  [Softly]  Won't  you  tell  me? 

Bill.  Nothing  to  tell. 

Mabel.  Ah!  no,  Mr.  Bill. 

Bill.  [Aimed,  succumbing  to  her  voice — then  sullenly] 
Worried,  I  suppose. 


88  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  n 

Mabel.  [Returning  to  hermocking]  Quite  got  over  it  ? 

Bill..  Don't  chafif  me,  please. 

Mabel.  You  really  are  rather  fonnidable. 

Bill.  Thanks. 

Mabel.  But,  you  know,  I  love  to  cross  a  field  where 
there's  a  bull. 

Bill.  Really!    Very  interesting. 

Mabel.  The  way  of  their  only  seeing  one  thing  at  a 
time.  [She  moves  back  as  he  advances]  And  overturning 
people  on  the  journey. 

Bill.  Hadn't  you  better  be  a  little  careful  ? 

Mabel.  And  never  to  see  the  hedge  until  they're 
stuck  in  it.  And  then  straight  from  that  hedge  into  the 
opposite  one. 

Bill.  [Savagely]  What  makes  you  bait  me  this  morn- 
ing of  all  mornings  ? 

Mabel.  The  beautiful  morning!  [Suddenly]  It  must 
be  dull  for  poor  Freda  working  in  there  with  all  this  fun 
going  on  ? 

Bill.  [Glancing  at  the  door]  Fun  you  call  it  ? 

Mabel.  To  go  back  to  you,  now — Mr.  Cheshire. 

Bill.  No. 

Mabei^  You  always  make  me  feel  so  Irish.  Is  it 
because  you're  so  English,  d'you  think  ?  Ah!  I  can  see 
him  moving  his  ears.  Now  he's  pawing  the  ground — 
He's  started! 

Bill.  Miss  Lanfame! 

Mabel.  [Still  backing  away  from  him,  and  drawing 
him  on  wUh  her  eyes  and  smile]  You  can't  help  coming 


A^ 


ACTH  THE  ELDEST  SON  39 

after  me!  [Then  with  a  sudden  change  to  a  sort  of  stem 
gravity]  Can  you  ?    You'll  feel  that  when  I've  gone. 

They  stand  quite  still,  looking  into  each  other's 
eyes  and  Fkeda,  who  has  opened  the  door  of 
the  workroom  stares  at  them. 
Mabel.  [Seeing  her]  Here's  the  stile.    Adisu,  Mon- 
sieur le  taureaul 

She  puts  her  hand  behind  her,  opens  the  door,  and 
slips  through,  leaving  Bill  to  turn,  following 
the  direction  of  her  eyes,  and  see  Freda  with 
the  cloak  still  in  her  hand. 
Bill.  [Slowly  walking  towards  her]  I  haven't  slept 
all  night. 
Freda.  No? 
Bill.  Have  you  been  thinking  it  over  ? 

[Freda  gives  a  bitter  little  laugh. 
Bill.  Don't!    We  must  make  a  plan.     I'll  get  you 
away.     I  won't  let  you  suflFer.    I  swear  I  won't. 
Freda.  That  will  be  clever. 

Bill.  I  wish  to  Heaven  my  affairs  weren't  in  such  a 
mess. 
Freda.  I  shall  be — all — right,  thank  you. 
Bill.  You  rnvM  think  me  a  blackguard.  [She  shakes 
her  head]  Abuse  me — say  something!    Don't  look  like 
that! 

Freda.  Were  you  ever  really  fond  of  me  ? 
Bill.  Of  course  I  was,  I  am  now.     Give  me  your 
hands. 

She  looks  at  him,  then  drags  her  hands  from  his, 
and  covers  her  face. 


40  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  ii 

Bill.  [Clenching  hia  fists]  Look  here!  I'll  prove  it. 
[  Then  as  she  suddenly  flings  her  arms  round  his  neck  and 
clings  to  him]  There,  there! 

There  is  a  click  of  a  door  handle.     They  start  away 
from  each  other,  and  see  Lady  Cheshire  re- 
garding them. 
Ladt  Cheshire.  [Without  irony]  I  beg  your  pardon. 
She  makes  as  if  to  withdraw  from  an  unwarranted 
intrusion,  but  suddenly  turning,  stands,  with 
lips  pressed  together,  waiting. 
Ladt  Cheshire.  Yes? 

Freda  has  muffled  her  face.    But  Bill  turns  and 
confronts  his  mother. 
Bill.  Don't  say  anything  against  her! 
Lady  Cheshire.  [Tries  to  speak  to  him  and  fails — 
then  to  Freda]  Please — go! 

Bill.  [Taking  Freda's  arm]  No. 

Lady  Cheshire,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  her- 
self moves  towards  the  door. 
Bill.  Stop,  mother! 
Lady  Cheshire.  I  think  perhaps  not. 
Bill.  [Looking  at  Freda,  who  is  cowering  as  though 
from  a  blow]  It's  a  d — d  shame! 
Lady  Cheshire.  It  is. 

Bill.  [With  sudden  resolution]  It's  not  as  you  think. 
I'm  engaged  to  be  married  to  her. 

[Freda  gives  him  a  wild  stare,  and  turns  away. 
Lady  Cheshire.  [Looking  from  one  to  the  other]  I — 
don't — think — ^I — quite — understand. 


ACTH  THE  ELDEST  SON  41 

Bill.  [With  the  brutality  of  his  mortijication]  What  I 
said  was  plain  enough. 
Lady  Cheshire.  Bill! 
Bill.  I  tell  you  I  am  going  to  marry  her. 
Lady  Cheshire.  [To  Freda]  Is  that  true? 

[Freda  gulps  and  remains  silent. 

Bill.  K  you  want  to  say  anything,  say  it  to  me, 
mother. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Gripping  the  edge  of  a  little  table] 
Give  me  a  chair,  please.  [Bill  gives  her  a  chair. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [To  Freda]  Please  sit  down  too. 
Freda  sits  on  the  piano  stool,  still  turning  her 
face  away. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Fixing  her  eyes  on  Freda]  Now! 

Bill.  I  fell  in  love  with  her.    And  she  with  me. 

Lady  Cheshire,  When? 

Bill.  In  the  summer. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Ah! 

Bill.  It  wasn't  her  fault. 

Lady  Cheshire.  No? 

Bill.  [With  a  sort  of  menace]  Mother! 

Lady  Cheshire.  Forgive  me,  I  am  not  quite  used 
to  the  idea.    You  say  that  you — are  engaged  ? 

Bill.  Yes. 

Lady  Cheshire.  The  reasons  against  such  an  en- 
gagement have  occurred  to  you,  I  suppose?  [With  a 
sudden  change  of  tone]  Bill !  what  does  it  mean  ? 

Bill.  If  you  think  she's  trapped  me  into  this • 


42  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  n 

Ladt  Cheshire.  I  do  not.  Neither  do  I  think  she 
has  been  trapped.  I  think  nothing.  I  understand 
nothing. 

Bill.  [Grimly]  Good! 

Lady  Cheshire.  How  long  has  this — engagement 
lasted? 

Bill.  [After  a  silence]  Two  months. 

Ladt  Cheshire.  [Suddenly]  This  is — this  is  quite 
impossible. 

Bill.  You'll  find  it  isn't. 

Lady  Cheshire.  It's  simple  misery. 

Bill.  [Pointing  to  the  workroom]  Go  and  wait  in 
there,  Freda. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Quickly]  And  are  you  still  in  love 
with  her  ? 

Freda,  moving  towards  the  worhroom,  smothers 
a  sob. 

Bill.  Of  course  I  am. 

Freda  has  gone,  and  as  she  goes.  Lady  Cheshire 
rises  suddenly,  forced  by  the  intense  feeling  she 
has  been  keeping  in  hand. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Bill!  Oh,  Bill!  What  does  it  all 
mean  ?  [Bill,  looking  from  side  to  side,  only  shrugs  his 
shoulders]  You  are  not  in  love  with  her  now.  It's  no 
good  telling  me  you  are. 

Bill.  I  am. 

Lady  Cheshire.  That's  not  exactly  how  you  would 
speak  if  you  were. 

Bill.  She's  in  love  with  me. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Bitterly]  I  suppose  so. 


•ACTn  THE  ELDEST  SON  43 

Bill.  I  mean  to  see  that  nobody  runs  her  down. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [With  difficulty]  Bill!  Am  I  a  hard, 
or  mean  woman  ? 

Bill.  Mother! 

Lady  Cheshire.  It's  all  your  life — and — ^your  fath- 
er's— and — all  of  us.  I  want  to  understand — I  must 
understand.  Have  you  realised  what  an  awful  thing 
this  would  be  for  us  all?  It's  quite  impossible  that 
it  should  go  on. 

Bill.  I'm  always  in  hot  water  with  the  Governor, 
as  it  is.  She  and  I'll  take  good  care  not  to  be  in  the 
way. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Tell  me  everything! 

Bill.  I  have. 

Lady  Cheshire.  I'm  your  mother,  Bill. 

Bill.  What's  the  good  of  these  questions  ? 

Lady  Cheshire.  You  won't  give  her  away — I  see! 

Bill.  I've  told  you  all  there  is  to  tell.  We're  en- 
gaged, we  shall  be  married  quietly,  and — ^and — go  to 
Canada. 

Lady  Cheshire.  If  there  weren't  more  than  that  to 
tell  you'd  be  in  love  with  her  now. 

Bill.  I've  told  you  that  I  am. 

Lady  Cheshire.  You  are  not.  [Almost  fiercely]  I 
know — I  know  there's  more  behind. 

Bill.  There — is — nothing. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Baffled,  but  unconvinced]  Do  you 
mean  that  your  love  for  her  has  been  iust  what  it  might 
have  been  for  a  lady  ? 

Bill.  [BUterly]  Why  not? 


44  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  n 

Lady  Cheshire.  [With  painful  irony]  It  is  not  so 
as  a  rule. 

Bill.  Up  to  now  I've  never  heard  you  or  the  girls 
say  a  word  against  Freda.  This  isn't  the  moment  to 
begin,  please. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Solemnly]  All  such  marriages  end 
in  wretchedness.  You  haven't  a  taste  or  tradition  in 
common.  You  don't  know  what  marriage  is.  Day 
after  day,  year  after  year.  It's  no  use  being  sentimen- 
tal— for  people  brought  up  as  we  are  to  have  dif- 
ferent manners  is  worse  than  to  have  different  souls. 
Besides,  it's  poverty.  Your  father  will  never  forgive 
you,  and  Fve  practically  nothing.  "What  can  you  do  ? 
You  have  no  profession.  How  are  you  going  to  stand 
it;  with  a  woman  who ?    It's  the  little  things. 

Bill,  I  know  all  that,  thanks. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Nobody  does  till  they've  been 
through  it.  Marriage  is  hard  enough  when  people  are 
of  the  same  class,  [With  a  stidden  movement  towards 
him]  Oh!  my  dear — before  it's  too  late! 

Bill.  [After  a  struggle]  It's  no  good. 

Lady  Cheshire.  It's  not  fair  to  her.  It  can  only 
end  in  her  misery. 

Bill.  Leave  that  to  me,  please. 

Lady  Cheshire.  \\Vilh  an  almost  angry  vehemence] 
Only  the  very  finest  can  do  such  things.  And  you — 
don't  even  know  what  trouble's  like. 

Bill.  Drop  it,  please,  mother. 

Lady  Cheshire,  Bill,  on  your  word  of  honour,  are 
you  acting  of  your  own  free  will  ? 


ACTn  THE  ELDEST  SON  45 

Bill.  [Breaking  away  from  her]  I  can't  stand  any 

more.  [He  goes  out  into  the  workroom. 

Lady  Chkshire.  What  in  God's  name  shall  I  do? 

In  her  distress  she  walks  up  and  down  the  room, 

then  goes  to  the  toorkroom  door,  and  opens  it. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Come  in  here,  please,  Freda. 

After  a  second's  pause,  Fkeda,  white  and  trem- 
bling, appears  in  the  doorway,  followed  by  Bill. 
Lady  Cheshire.  No,  Bill.    I  want  to  speak  to  her 
alone. 

Bill  does  not  move. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Icily]  I  must  ask  you  to  leave  us. 
Bill  hesitates;  then  shrugging  his  shoulders,  he 
touches  Freda's  arms,  and  goes  back  into  the 
workroom,  closing  the  door.     There  is  silence. 

Lady  Cheshire.  How  did  it  come  about  ? 

Freda.  I  don't  know,  my  lady. 

Lady  Cheshire.  For  heaven's  sake,  child,  don't  call 
me  that  again,  whatever  happens.  [She  walks  to  the 
uxindow,  and  speaks  from  there]  I  know  well  enough 
how  love  comes.  I  don't  blame  you.  Don't  cry.  But, 
you  see,  it's  my  eldest  son.  [Freda  puts  her  hand  to  her 
breaM]  Yes,  I  know.  Women  always  get  the  worst  of 
these  things.  That's  natural.  But  it's  not  only  you — 
is  it  ?    Does  any  one  guess  ? 

Freda.  No. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Not  even  your  father?  [Freda 
shakes  her  head]  There's  nothing  more  dreadful  than 
for  a  woman  to  hang  like  a  stone  roimd  a  man's  neck. 
How  far  has  it  gone?    Tell  me! 


46  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  ii 

Freda.  I  can't. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Come! 

Freda.  I — won't. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Smiling  painfully].  Won't  give 
him  away  ?  Both  of  you  the  same.  What's  the  use  of 
that  with  me  ?  Look  at  me !  Wasn't  he  with  you  when 
you  went  for  your  hohday  this  summer  ? 

Freda.  He's — always — behaved — like — a — gentle- 
man. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Like  a  man — ^you  mean! 

Freda.  It  hasn't  been  his  fault!    I  love  him  so. 

Lady  Cheshire  turns  abruptly,  and  begins  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  room.  Then  stopping, 
she  looks  intently  at  Freda. 

Lady  Cheshire.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you. 
It's  simple  madness!    It  can't,  and  shan't  go  on. 

Freda.  [Sullenly]  I  know  I'm  not  his  equal,  but  I 
am — somebody. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Answering  this  first  assertion  of 
rights  with  a  sudden  steeliness]  Does  he  love  you  now  ? 

Freda.  That's  not  fair — it's  not  fair. 

Lady  Cheshire.  If  men  are  like  gunpowder,  Freda, 
women  are  not.  If  you've  lost  him  it's  been  your  own 
fault. 

Freda.  But  he  does  love  me,  he  must.  It's  only  four 
months. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Looking  down,  and  speaking  rap- 
idly] Listen  to  me.  I  love  my  son,  but  I  know  him — I 
know  all  his  kind  of  man.  I've  lived  with  one  for  thirty 
years.     I  know  the  way  their  senses  work.     When  they 


ACTH  THE  ELDEST  SON  47 

want  a  thing  they  must  have  it,  and  then — they're 
sorry. 

Freda.  [Sullenly]  He's  not  sorry. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Is  his  love  big  enough  to  carry  you 
both  over  everything?  .  .  .  You  know  it  isn't. 

Freda.  If  I  were  a  lady,  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that. 

Lady  Cheshire.  If  you  were  a  lady  there'd  be  no 
trouble  before  either  of  you.   You'll  make  him  hate  you. 

Freda.  I  won't  believe  it.  I  could  make  him  happy 
— out  there. 

Lady  Cheshire.  I  don't  want  to  be  so  odious  as  to 
say  all  the  things  you  must  know.  I  only  ask  you  to 
try  and  put  yourself  in  our  position. 

Freda.  Ah,  yes! 

Lady  Cheshire.  You  ought  to  know  me  better  than 
to  think  I'm  purely  selfish. 

Freda.  Would  you  like  to  put  yourself  in  my  posi- 
tion ?  [She  throws  up  her  head. 

Lady  Cheshire.  What! 

Freda.  Yes.     Just  like  Rose. 

Lady  Cheshire,  [In  a  low,  horror-stricken  voice]  Oh ! 
There  is  a  dead  silence,  then  going  swiftly  up  to 
her,  she  looks  straight  into  Freda's  eyes. 

Freda.  [Meeting  her  gaze]  Oh!  Yes — it's  the  truth. 
[Then  to  Bill  who  has  come  in  from  the  workroom,  she 
gasps  out]  I  never  meant  to  tell. 

Bill.  Well,  are  you  satisfied  ? 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Below  her  breath]  This  is  terrible! 

Bill.  The  Governor  had  better  know. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Oh!  no;  not  yet! 


48  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  ii 

Bill.  Waiting  won't  cure  it! 

The  door  from  the  corridor  is  thrown  open;  Chris- 
tine and  Dot  run  in  with  their  copies  of  the 
play  in  their  hands;   seeing  that  something  is 
wrong,  they  stand  still.    After  a  look  at  his 
mother.  Bill  turns  abruptly,  and  goes  back  into 
the  workroom.    Lady  Cheshire  moves  towards 
the  window. 
Joan.  [Following    her    sister s\  The    car's    round. 
What's  the  matter  ? 
Dot.  Shut  up! 

Sir  Wiluam's  voice  is  heard  from  the  corridor 
calling  "Dorothy!"  As  Lady  Cheshire,  pass- 
ing her  handkerchief  over  her  face,  turns  round, 
he  enters.    He  is  in  full  hunting  dress:  weU- 
weathered  pink,  buckskins,  and  mahogany  tops. 
Sir  William.  Just  ofiF,  my  dear.  [To  his  daughters, 
genially]  Rehearsin'?    What!  [He  goes  up  to  Freda 
holding  out  his  gloved  right  hand]  Button  that  for  me, 
Freda,  would  you  ?    It's  a  bit  stiflF! 

Freda  buttons  the  glove:  Lady  Cheshire  and 
the  girls  watching  in  hypnotic  silence. 
Sir  William.  Thank  you!  "Bahny  as  May";  scent 
ought  to  be  first-rate.  [To  Lady  Cheshire]  Good-bye, 
my  dear!  Sampson's  Gorse — best  day  of  the  whole 
year.  [i?e  pats  Joan  on  the  shoulder]  Wish  you  were 
comin'  out,  Joan. 

He  goes  out,  leaving  the  door  open,  and  as  his 
footsteps  and  the  chink  of  his  spurs  die  away, 
Freda  turns  and  rushes  into  the  workroom. 


ACTH  THE  ELDEST  SON  49 

Christine.  Mother!    What ? 

Bvi  Lady  Cheshire  waves  the  question  aside, 
passes  her  daughter,  and  goes  out  into  the  cor- 
ridor.    The  sound  of  a  motor  car  is  heard. 

Joan.  [Running  to  the  window]  They've  started — ! 
—Chris!    What  is  it?    Dot? 

Dot.  Bill,  and  her! 

Joan.  But  what? 

Dot.  [Gloomilyl  Heaven  knows!  Go   away,   you're 
not  fit  for  this. 

Joan.  [Aghasi\  I  am  fit. 

Dot.  I  think  not. 

Joan.  Chris? 

Christine.  [In  a  hard  voice]  Mother  ought  to  have 
told  us. 

Joan.  It  can't  be  very  awful.     Freda's  so  good. 

Dot,  Call  yourself  in  love,  you  milk-and-water — 
kitten ! 

Christine.  It's  horrible,  not  knowing  anything!    I 
vnsh  Ronny  hadn't  gone. 

Joan.  Shall  I  fetch  John? 

Dot.  John! 

Christine.  Perhaps  Harold  knows. 

Joan.  He  went  out  with  Studdenham. 

Dot.  It's  always  like  this,  women  kept  in  blinkers. 
Rose-leaves  and  humbug!    That  awful  old  man! 

Joan.  Dot! 

Christine.  Don't  talk  of  father  like  that! 

Dot.  Well,  he  is!    And  Bill  will  be  just  like  him  at 
fifty!    Heaven  help  Freda,  whatever  she's  done!    I'd 


50  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  n 

sooner  be  a  private  in  a  Gemiaa  regiment  than  a 
woman. 

Joan.  Dot,  you're  awful. 
Dot.  You — mouse-hearted — linnet! 
ChristinEi  Don't  talk  that  nonsense  about  women! 
Dot.  You're  married  and  out  of  it;  and  Ronny's  not 
one  of  these  terrific  John  Bulls.  [To  Joan  who  has 
opened  the  door]  Looking  for  John  ?    No  good,  my  dear; 
lath  and  plaster. 

Joan.  [From  the  door,  in  a  frightened  whisper]  Here's 
Mabel! 

Dot.  Heavens,  and  the  waters  under  the  earth! 
Christine.  If  we  only  knew! 

As  Mabel  comes  in,  the  three  girls  are  silent,  with 
their  eyes  fixed  on  their  books. 
Mabel.  The  silent  company. 

Dot.  [Looking  straight  at  her]  We're  chucking  it  for 
to-day. 

Mabel.  What's  the  matter  ? 
Christine.  Oh!  nothing. 
Dot.  Something's  happened. 

Mabel.  Really!    I  am  sorry.  [Hesitating]  Is  it  bad 
enough  for  me  to  go  ? 

Christine.  Oh!  no,  Mabel! 

Dot.  [Sardonically]  I  should  think  very  likely. 

While  she  is  looking  from  face  to  face.  Bill  comes 
in  from  the  workroom.  He  starts  to  walk 
across  the  room,  hvt  stops,  and  looks  stolidly  at 
the  four  girls. 


ACT  II  THE  ELDEST  SON  51 

Bill.  Exactly!    Fact  of  the  matter  is.  Miss  Lan- 
fame,  I'm  engaged  to  my  mother's  maid. 

No  one  moves  or  speaks.  Suddenly  Mabel 
Lanfaene  goes  towards  him,  holding  ovt  her 
hand.  Bill  does  not  take  her  hand,  but  bows. 
Then  after  a  swift  glance  at  the  girls'  faces 
Mabel  goes  out  into  the  corridor,  and  the  three 
girls  are  left  staring  at  their  brother. 
Bill.  [Coolly]  Thought  you  might  like  to  know. 

[He,  too,  goes  oui  into  the  corridor. 
Christine.  Great  heavens! 
Joan.  How  awful  I 

Christine.  I  never  thought  of  anything  as  bad  as  that. 
Joan.  Oh!  Chris!    Something  must  be  done! 
Dot.  [Suddenly  to  herself]  Ha!  When  Father  went  up 
to  have  his  glove  buttoned! 

There  is  a  sound,  Jackson  ha^  come  in  from  the 
corridor. 
Jackson.  [To  Dot]  If  you  please,  Miss,  Studden- 
ham's  brought  up  the  other  two  pups.     He's  just  out- 
side.    Will  you  kindly  take  a  look  at  them,  he  says  ? 
There  is  silence. 
Dot.  [Suddenly]  We  can't. 
Christine.  Not  just  now,  Jackson. 
Jackson.  Is  Studdenham  and  the  pups  to  wait,  M'm  ? 
Dot  shakes  her  head  violently.    But  Studden- 
ham is  seen  already  standing  in  the  doorway, 
xoith  a  spaniel  puppy  in  either  side-pocket.    He 
comes  in,  and  Jackson  stands  waiting  behind 
him. 


52  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  n 

Studdenham.  This  fellow's  the  best,  Miss  Dot. 
[He  protrudes  the  right-hand  pocket]  I  was  keeping 
him  for  my  girl — a  proper  breedy  one — takes  after  his 
father. 

The  girls  stare  at  him  in  silence. 

Dot.  [Hastily]  Thanks,  Studdenham,  I  see, 

Studdenham.  I  won't  take  'em  out  in  here.  They're 
rather  bold  yet. 

Christine.  [Desperately]  No,  no,  of  course. 

Studdenham.  Then  you  think  you'd  like  him.  Miss 
Dot?    The  other's  got  a  white  chest;  she's  a  lady. 

[He  protrudes  the  left-hand  pocket. 

Dot.  Oh,  yes!  Studdenham;  thanks,  thanks  awfully. 

Studdenham.  Wonderful  faithful  creatures:  follow 
you  like  a  woman.  You  can't  shake  'em  off  anyhow. 
[He  protrudes  the  right-hand  pocket]  My  girl,  she'd  set 
her  heart  on  him,  but  she'll  just  have  to  do  without. 

Dot.  [As  though  galvanised]  Oh!  no,  I  can't  take  it 
away  from  her. 

Studdenham.  Bless  you,  she  won't  mind!  That's 
settled,  then.  [He  turns  to  the  door.  To  the  Puppt] 
Ah!  would  you!  Tryin'  to  wriggle  out  of  it!  Regular 
young  limb!  [He  goes  out,  followed  by  Jackson. 

Christine.  How  ghastly! 

Dot.  [Suddenly  catching  sight  of  the  book  in  her  hand] 
"Caste!"  [She  gives  vent  to  a  short  sharp  laugh. 

The  curtain  falls . 


ACT  III 

It  is  five  o'clock  of  the  same  day.  The  scene  is  the 
smoking-room,  with  walls  of  Leander  red,  covered 
by  old  steeplechase  and  hunting  prints.  Armchairs 
encircle  a  high-fendered  hearth,  in  which  afire  is 
burning.  The  curtains  are  not  yet  drawn  across 
mtdlioned  windows;  but  electric  light  is  burning. 
There  are  two  doors,  leading,  the  one  to  the  hiUiard- 
room,  the  other  to  a  corridor.  Bill  is  pacing  up  and 
dovm;  Harold,  at  the  fireplace,  stands  looking  at 
him  with  commiseration. 
Bill.  What's  the  time? 

Harold.  Nearly  five.  They  won't  be  in  yet,  if  that's 
any  consolation.  Always  a  tough  meet — [softly]  as  the 
tiger  said  when  he  ate  the  man. 

Bill.  By  Jove!  You're  the  only  person  I  can  stand 
within  a  mile  of  me,  Harold. 

Harold.  Old  boy!  Do  you  seriously  think  you're 
going  to  make  it  any  better  by  marrying  her  ? 

[Bill  shrugs  his  shoidders,  still  pacing  the  room. 
Bill.  Look  here!    I'm  not  the  sort  that  finds  it  easy 
to  say  things. 
Harold.  No,  old  man. 

Bill.  But  I've  got  a  kind  of  self-respect  though  you 
wouldn't  think  it! 
Harold.  My  dear  old  chap! 
53 


54  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  m 

Bill.  This  is  about  as  low-down  a  thing  as  one  could 
have  done,  I  suppose — one's  own  mother's  maid;  we've 
known  her  since  she  was  so  high.  I  see  it  now  that — 
I've  got  over  the  attack. 

Harold.  But,  heavens!  if  you're  no  longer  keen  on 
her,  Bill!    Do  apply  your  reason,  old  boy. 

There  is  silence;  while  Bill  again  'paces  up  and 
down. 

Bill.  If  you  think  I  care  two  straws  about  the 
morality  of  the  thing 

Harold.  Oh!  my  dear  old  man!    Of  course  not! 

Bill.  It's  simply  that  I  shall  feel  such  a  d — d  skunk, 
if  I  leave  her  in  the  lurch,  with  everybody  knowing. 
Try  it  yourself;  you'd  soon  see! 

Harold.  Poor  old  chap! 

Bill.  It's  not  as  if  she'd  tried  to  force  me  into  it. 
And  she's  a  soft  little  thing.  Why  I  ever  made  such  a 
sickening  ass  of  myself,  I  can't  think.     I  never  meant — 

Harold.  No,  I  know!  But,  don't  do  anything  rash. 
Bill;  keep  your  head,  old  man! 

Bill.  I  don't  see  what  loss  I  should  be,  if  I  did  clear 
out  of  the  coimtry.  [The  sound  of  cannoning  billiard 
balls  is  heard]  Who's  that  knocking  the  balls  about  ? 

Harold.  John,  I  expect.  [The  sound  ceases. 

Bill.  He's  coming  in  here.     Can't  stand  that! 

As  Latter  appears  from  the  billiard-room,  he 
goes  hurriedly  out. 

Latter.  Was  that  Bill? 

Harold.  Yes. 

Latter.  Well? 


ACTra  THE  ELDEST  SON  55 

Harold.  [Pacing  up  and  dovm  in  his  turn]  Rat  in  a 
cage  is  a  fool  to  him.  This  is  the  sort  of  thing  you  read 
of  in  books,  John!  What  price  your  argument  with 
Ronny  now  ?     Well,  it's  not  too  late  for  you  luckily. 

Latter.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Harold.  You  needn't  connect  yourself  with  this  ec- 
centric family! 

Latter.  I'm  not  a  bounder,  Harold. 

Harold.  Good! 

Latter.  It's  terrible  for  your  sisters. 

Harold.  Deuced  lucky  we  haven't  a  lot  of  people 
staying  here!  Poor  mother!  John,  I  feel  awfully  bad 
about  this.  If  something  isn't  done,  pretty  mess  I  shall 
be  in. 

Latter.  How? 

Harold.  There's  no  entail.  If  the  Governor  cuts 
Bill  off,  it'll  all  come  to  me. 

Latter.  Oh! 

Harold.  Poor  old  Bill!  I  say,  the  play!  Nemesis! 
What  ?  Moral!  Caste  don't  matter.  Got  us  fairly  on 
the  hop. 

Latter.  It's  too  bad  of  Bill.  It  really  is.  He's  be- 
haved disgracefully. 

Harold.  [Warmly]  Well!  There  are  thousands  of 
fellows  who'd  never  dream  of  sticking  to  the  girl,  con- 
sidering what  it  means. 

Latter.  Perfectly  disgusting! 

Harold.  Hang  you,  John!  Haven't  you  any  human 
sympathy?  Don't  you  know  how  these  things  come 
about?    It's  like  a  spark  in  a  straw-yard. 


56  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  ra 

Latter.  One  doesn't  take  lighted  pipes  into  straw- 
yards  unless  one's  an  idiot,  or  worse. 

Harold.  H'm!  [With  a  grin]  You're  not  allowed  to- 
bacco. In  the  good  old  days  no  one  would  have  thought 
anything  of  this.     My  great-grandfather 

Latter.  Spare  me  your  great-grandfather. 

Harold.  I  could  tell  you  of  at  least  a  dozen  men  I 
know  who've  been  through  this  same  business,  and  got 
off  scot-free;  and  now  because  Bill's  going  to  play  the 
game,  it'll  smash  him  up. 

Latter.  Why  didn't  he  play  the  game  at  the  begin- 
ning? 

Harold.  I  can't  stand  your  sort,  John.  When  a 
thing  like  this  happens,  all  you  can  do  is  to  cry  out: 
Why  didn't  he—  ?  Why  didn't  she—  ?  What's  to  be 
done — ^that's  the  point! 

Latter.  Of  course  he'll  have  to 

Harold.  Ha! 

Latter.  What  do  you  mean  by — that  ? 

Harold.  Look  here,  John!  You  feel  in  your  bones 
that  a  marriage'U  be  hopeless,  just  as  I  do,  knowing 
Bill  and  the  girl  and  everything!    Now  don't  you  ? 

Latter.  The  whole  thing  is — is  most  unfortunate. 

Harold.  By  Jove!    I  should  think  it  was! 

As  he  speaks  Christine  and  Keith  come  in 
from  the  billiard-room.  He  is  still  in  splashed 
hunting  clothes,  and  looks  exceptionally  weath- 
ered, thin-lipped,  reticent.  He  lights  a  cigarette 
and  sinks  into  an  armchair.  Behind  them  Dot 
and  Joan  have  come  stealing  in. 


ACTm  THE  ELDEST  SON  67 

Christine.  I've  told  Ronny. 
Joan.  This  waiting  for  father  to  be  told  is  awful. 
Harold.  [  To  Keith]  Where  did  you  leave  the  old  man  ? 
Keith.  Clackenham.     He'll  be  home  in  ten  minutes. 
Dot.  Mabel's  going.  [They  all  stir,  as  if  at  fresh  con- 
sciousness of  discomJUure].  She  walked  into  Gracely  and 
sent  herself  a  telegram. 
Harold.  Phew! 

Dot.  And  we  shall  say  good-bye,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened! 

Harold.  It's  up  to  you,  Ronny. 

Keith,  looking  at  Joan,  slowly  emits  smoke;  and 
Latter  passing  his  arm  through  Joan's,  draws 
her  away  vnth  him  into  the  billiard-room. 
Keith.  Dot? 

Dot.  I'm  not  a  squeamy  squirrel. 
Keith.  Anybody  seen  the  girl  since? 
Dot.  Yes. 
Harold.  WeU? 
Dot.  She's  just  sitting  there. 
Christine.  [In  a  hard  voice]  As  we're  all  doing. 
Dot.  She's  so  soft,  that's  what's  so  horrible.     If  one 

could  only  feel ! 

Keith.  She's  got  to  face  the  music  like  the  rest  of  us. 
Dot.  Music!  Squeaks!  Ugh!    The  whole  thing's  like 
a  concertina,  and  some  one  jigging  it! 

They  all  turn  as  the  door  opens,  and  a  Footman 
enters  with  a  tray  of  whiskey,  gin,  lemons,  and 
soda  water.  In  dead  silence  the  Footman  puis 
the  tray  down. 


58  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  m 

Harold.  [Forcing  his  voice]  Did  you  get  a  run, 
Ronny  ?  [As  Keith  nods]  What  point  ? 

Keith.  Eight  mile. 

Footman.  Will  you  take  tea,  sir? 

Keith.  No,  thanks,  Charles! 

In  dead  silence  again  the  Footman  goes  out,  and 
they  all  look  after  him. 

Harold.  [Below  his  breath]  Good  Gad!  That's  a 
squeeze  of  it! 

Keith.  What's  our  line  of  country  to  be  ? 

Christine.  All  depends  on  father. 

Keith.  Sir  William's  between  the  devil  and  the  deep 
sea,  as  it  strikes  me. 

Christine.  He'll  simply  forbid  it  utterly,  of  course. 

Keith.  H'm!  Hard  case!  Man  who  reads  family 
prayers,  and  lessons  on  Sunday  forbids  son  to 

Christine.  Ronny! 

Keith.  Great  Scott!  I'm  not  saying  Bill  ought  to 
marry  her.  She's  got  to  stand  the  racket.  But  your 
Dad  will  have  a  tough  job  to  take  up  that  position. 

Dot.  Awfully  funny! 

Christine.  What  on  earth  d'you  mean,  Dot  ? 

Dot.  Morality  in  one  eye,  and  your  title  in  the 
other! 

Christine.  Rubbish! 

Harold.  You're  all  reckoning  without  your  Bill. 

Keith.  Ye-es.  Sir  William  can  cut  him  off;  no 
mortal  power  can  help  the  title  going  down,  if  Bill 

chooses  to  be  such  a 

[He  draws  in  his  breath  with  a  sharp  hiss. 


ACT  in  THE  ELDEST  SON  59 

Harold,  I  won't  take  what  Bill  ought  to  have;  nor 
would  any  of  you  girls,  I  should  think 

Christine  and  Dor.  Of  course  not! 

Keith.  [Patting  his  wife's  arm]  Hardly  the  point, 
is  it? 

Dot.  If  it  wasn't  for  mother!  Freda's  just  as  much 
of  a  lady  as  most  girls.  Why  shouldn't  he  marry  her, 
and  go  to  Canada  ?    It's  what  he's  really  fit  for. 

Harold.  Steady  on.  Dot! 

Dot.  Well,  imagine  him  in  Parliament !  That's  what 
he'll  come  to,  if  he  stays  here — jolly  for  the  country ! 

Christine.  Don't  be  cynical!  We  must  find  a  way 
of  stopping  Bill. 

Dot.  Me  cynical! 

Christine.  Let's  go  and  beg  him,  Ronny! 

Keith.  No  earthly!    The  only  hope  is  in  the  girl. 

Dot.  She  hasn't  the  stuff  in  her! 

Harold.  I  say!  What  price  young  Dunning!  Right 
about  face!    Poor  old  Dad! 

Christine.  It's  past  joking,  Harold ! 

Dot.  [GloomUy]  Old  Studdenham's  better  than  most 
relations  by  marriage! 

Keith.  Thanks! 

Christine.  It's  ridiculous — monstrous!  It's  fan- 
tastic! 

Harold.  [Holding  up  his  hand]  There's  his  horse 
going  round.     He's  in! 

They  turn  from  listening  to  the  sound,  to  see  Lady 
Cheshire  coming  from  the  billiard-room.  She 
is  very  fole.     They  all  rise  and  Dot  puts  an 


60  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  m 

arm  round  her;  while  Keith  pushes  forward 
his  chair.  Joan  and  Latter  too  have  come 
stealing  back. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Thank  you,  Ronny! 

[She  sits  down. 

Dot.  Mother,  you're  shivering!  Shall  I  get  you  a 
fur? 

Lady  Cheshire.  No,  thanks,  dear! 
'  Dot.  [In  a  low  voice]  Play  up,  mother  darling! 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Straightening  herself]  What  sort  of 
a  run,  Ronny? 

Keith.  Quite  fair,  M'm.  Brazier's  to  Caffyn's  Dyke, 
good  straight  line. 

Lady  Cheshire.  And  the  young  horse  ? 

Keith.  Carries  his  ears  in  your  mouth  a  bit,  that's 
all.  [Pviting  his  hand  on  her  shoulder]  Cheer  up,  Mem- 
Sahib! 

Christine.  Mother,  must  anything  be  said  to  father  ? 
Ronny  thinks  it  all  depends  on  her.  Can't  you  use  your 
influence  ?  [Lady  Cheshire  shakes  her  head. 

Christine.  But,  mother,  it's  desperate. 

Dot.  Shut  up,  Chris!  Of  course  mother  can't.  We 
simply  couldn't  beg  her  to  let  us  off! 

Christine.  There  must  be  some  way.  What  do  you 
think  in  your  heart,  mother  ? 

Dot.  Leave  mother  alone! 

Christine.  It  must  be  faced,  now  or  never. 

Dot.  [In  a  low  voice]  Haven't  you  any  self-respect  ? 

Christine.  We  shall  be  the  laughing-stock  of  the 
whole  county.     Oh!  mother  do  speak  to  her!    You 


ACT  in  THE  ELDEST  SON  61 

know  it'll  be  misery  for  both  of  them.  [Lady  Cheshire 
bows  her  head]  Well,  then  ? 

[Ladt  Cheshire  shakes  her  head. 

Christine.  Not  even  for  Bill's  sake  ? 

Dot.  Chris! 

Christine.  Well,  for  heaven's  sake,  speak  to  Bill 
again,  mother!    We  ought  all  to  go  on  our  knees  to  him. 

Lady  Cheshire.  He's  with  your  father  now. 

Harold.  Poor  old  Bill! 

Christine.  [Passionately]  He  didn't  think  of  us! 
That  wretched  girl! 

Lady  Cheshire.  Chris! 

Christine.  There  are  limits! 

Lady  Cheshire.  Not  to  self-control. 

Christine.  No,  mother!  I  can't — I  never  shall — 
Something  must  be  done!  You  know  what  Bill  is.  He 
rushes  at  things  so,  when  he  gets  his  head  down.  Oh! 
do  try!    It's  only  fair  to  her,  and  all  of  us! 

Lady  Cheshire.  [PainfvUy]  There  are  things  one 
can't  do. 

Christine.  But  it's  Bill!  I  know  you  can  make  her 
give  him  up,  if  you'll  only  say  all  you  can.  And,  after 
all,  what's  coming  won't  affect  her  as  if  she'd  been  a 
lady.  Only  you  can  do  it,  mother.  Do  back  me  up, 
all  of  you!    It's  the  only  way! 

Hypnotised  by  their  private  longing  for  what 
Christine  lias  been  urging  they  have  all  fixed 
their  eyes  on  Lady  Cheshire,  who  looks  from 
face  to  face  y  and  moves  her  hands  as  if  in  phys- 
ical pain. 


62  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  m 

Christine.  [Sofily]  Mother! 

Lady  Cheshire  suddenly  rises,  looking  towards 
the  billiard-room  door,  listening.     They  all  fol- 
low her  eyes.     She  sits  down  again,  passing  her 
hand  over  her  lips,  as  Sir  William  enters.    His 
hunting  clothes  are  splashed;  his  face  very  grim 
and  set.    He  walks  to  the  fire  wiihovt  a  glance 
at  any  one,  and  stands  looking  down  into  it. 
Very  quietly,  every  one  hut  Lady  Cheshire 
deals  away. 
Lady  Cheshire.  What  have  you  done  ? 
Sir  William.  You  there! 
Lady  Cheshire.  Don't  keep  me  in  suspense! 
Sir  William.  The  fool!  My  God!  Dorothy!  I  didn't 
think  I  had  a  blackguard  for  a  son,  who  was  a  fool  into 
the  bargain. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Rising^  If  he  were  a  blackguard 
he  would  not  be  what  you  call  a  fool. 

Sir  William.  [After  staring  angrily,  makes  her  a 
slight  how'\  Very  well! 

Lady    Cheshire.  [In  a  low  voice]  Bill,  don't  be 
harsh.     It's  all  too  terrible. 
Sir  William.  Sit  down,  my  dear. 

iShe  resumes  her  seat,  and  he  turns  back  to  the  fire. 
Sir  William.  In  all  my  life  I've  never  been  face  to 
face  with  a  thing  like  this.  [Gripping  the  mantelpiece  so 
hard  that  his  hands  and  arms  are  seen  shaking]  You  ask 
me  to  be  calm.  I  am  trying  to  be.  Be  good  enough  in 
turn  not  to  take  his  part  against  me. 
Lady  Cheshire.  Bill! 


ACTm  THE  ELDEST  SON  63 

SiK  William.  I  am  trying  to  think.  I  understand 
that  you've  known  this — piece  of  news  since  this  morn- 
ing. I've  known  it  ten  minutes.  Give  me  a  little  time, 
please.  [Then,  after  a  silence]  Where's  the  girl? 

Lady  Cheshire,  In  the  workroom. 

Sir  William.  [Raising  his  clenched  fist]  What  in 
God's  name  is  he  about  ? 

Lady  Cheshire.  What  have  you  said  to  him  ? 

Sir  William.  Nothing — by  a  miracle.  [He  breaks 
away  from  the  fire  and  walks  up  and  down]  My  family 
goes  back  to  the  thirteenth  century.  Nowadays  they 
laugh  at  that!  I  don't!  Nowadays  they  laugh  at 
everything — they  even  laugh  at  the  word  lady — I  mar- 
ried you,  and  I  don't.  .  .  .  Married  his  mother's  maid ! 
By  George!  Dorothy!  I  don't  know  what  we've  done 
to  deserve  this;  it's  a  death  blow!  I'm  not  prepared  to 
sit  down  and  wait  for  it.  By  Gad !  I  am  not.  [With  sud- 
den fierceness]  There  are  plenty  in  these  days  who'll  be 

glad  enough  for  this  to  happen;  plenty  of  these  d d 

Socialists  and  Radicals,  who'll  laugh  their  souls  out  over 
what  they  haven't  the  bowels  to  see's  a — tragedy.  I  say 
it  would  be  a  tragedy;  for  you,  and  me,  and  all  of  us. 
You  and  I  were  brought  up,  and  we've  brought  the  chil- 
dren up,  with  certain  behefs,  and  wants,  and  habits.  A 
man's  past — his  traditions — ^he  can't  get  rid  of  them. 
They're — ^they're  himself!  [Suddenly]  It  shan't  go  on. 

Lady  Cheshire.  What's  to  prevent  it  ? 

Sir  William.  I  utterly  forbid  this  piece  of  madness. 
I'll  stop  it. 

Lady  Cheshire.  But  the  thing  we  can't  stop. 


64  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  m 

Sir  Wiluam.  Provision  must  be  made. 

Lady  Cheshire.  The  unwritten  law! 

Sir  William.  What!  [Suddenly  perceiving  what  she 

is  alluding  to]  You're  thinking  of  young — young 

[Shortly]  I  don't  see  the  connection. 

Lady  Cheshire.  What's  so  awful,  is  that  the  boy's 
trying  to  do  what's  loyal — and  we — his  father  and 
mother — ! 

Sir  William.  I'm  not  going  to  see  my  eldest  son  ruin 
his  life.    I  must  think  this  out. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Beneath  her  breath]  I've  tried  that 
— it  doesn't  help. 

Sir  William.  This  giri,  who  was  bom  on  the  estate, 
had  the  run  of  the  house — ^brought  up  with  money  earned 
from  me — nothing  but  kindness  from  all  of  us;  she's 
broken  the  common  rules  of  gratitude  and  decency — she 
lured  him  on,  I  haven't  a  doubt! 

Lady  Cheshire.  [To  herself]  In  a  way,  I  suppose. 

Sir  William.  What!  It's  ruin.  We've  always  been 
here.  Who  the  deuce  are  we  if  we  leave  this  place? 
D'you  think  we  could  stay?  Go  out  and  meet  every- 
body just  as  if  nothing  had  happened?  Good-bye  to 
any  prestige,  political,  social,  or  anything!  This  is  the 
sort  of  business  nothing  can  get  over.  I've  seen  it  be- 
fore. As  to  that  other  matter — it's  soon  forgotten — con- 
stantly happening — Why,  my  own  grandfather ! 

Lady  Cheshire.  Does  he  help  ? 

Sir  William.  [Stares  before  him  in  silence — suddenly] 
You  must  go  to  the  giri.  She's  soft.  She'll  never  hold 
out  against  you. 


ACTin  THE  ELDEST  SON  65 

Lady  Cheshire.  I  did  before  I  knew  what  was  in 
front  of  her — I  said  all  I  could.  I  can't  go  again  now. 
I  can't  do  it.  Bill. 

Sir  William.  What  are  you  going  to  do,  then — fold 
your  hands  ?  [Then  as  Lady  Cheshire  makes  a  move- 
ment of  distress.]  If  he  marries  her,  I've  done  with  him. 
As  far  as  I'm  concerned  he'll  cease  to  exist.  The  title — 
I  can't  help.     My  God!    Does  that  meet  your  wishes  ? 

Lady  Cheshire.  [With  sudden  fire]  You've  no  right 
to  put  such  an  alternative  to  me.  I'd  give  ten  years  of 
my  life  to  prevent  this  marriage.  I'll  go  to  Bill.  I'll 
beg  him  on  my  knees. 

Sir  William.  Then  why  can't  you  go  to  the  girl? 
She  deserves  no  consideration.  It's  not  a  question  of 
morality.     Morality  be  d d! 

Lady  Cheshire.  But  not  self-respect. 

Sir  William.  What!  You're  his  mother! 

Lady  Cheshire.  I've  tried;  I  [putting  her  hand  to 
her  throat]  can't  get  it  out. 

Sir  William.  [Staring  at  her]  You  won't  go  to  her  ? 
It's  the  only  chance.        [Lady  Cheshire  turns  away. 

Sir  William.  In  the  whole  course  of  our  married 
life,  Dorothy,  I've  never  known  you  set  yourself  up 
against  me.  I  resent  this,  I  warn  you — ^I  resent  it. 
Send  the  girl  to  me.    I'll  do  it  myself. 

With  a  look  back  at  him  Lady  Cheshire  goes 
out  into  the  corridor. 

Sir  William.  This  is  a  nice  end  to  my  day! 

He  takes  a  small  china  cup  from  off  the  mantel- 
piece; it  breaks  with  the  pressure  of  his  hand. 


66  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  m 

and  falls  into  the  fireplace.     While  he  stands 
looking  at  it  blankly,  there  is  a  knock. 
Sir  William.  Come  in! 

Freda  enters  from  the  corridor. 
Sir  William.  I've  asked  you  to  be  good  enough  to 
come,  in  order  that — [pointing  to  chair]  You  may  sit 
down. 

But  though  she  advances  two  or  three  steps,  she 
does  not  sit  down. 
Sir  William.  This  is  a  sad  business. 
Freda.  [Behw  her  breath]  Yes,  Sir  William. 
Sir  William.  {Becoming  conscious  of  the  depths  of 
feeling  before  him]  I — er — are  you  attached  to  my  son  ? 
Freda.  [In  a  whisper]  Yes. 

Sir  William.  It's  very  painful  to  me  to  have  to  do 
this.      [He  turns  away  from  her  and  speaks  to  the  fire. 
I  sent  for  you — to — ask — [quickly]  How  old  are  you  ? 
Freda.  Twenty-two. 

Sir  William.  [More  resolutely]  Do  you  expect  me  to 
— sanction  such  a  mad  idea  as  a  marriage  ? 
Freda.  I  don't  expect  anything. 
Sir  William.  You  know — ^you  haven't  earned  the 
right  to  be  considered. 
Freda.  Not  yet! 

Sir  William.  What!  That  oughtn't  to  help  you! 
On  the  contrary.  Now  brace  yourself  up,  and  listen 
to  me! 

She  stands  waiting  to  hear  her  sentence.  Sir 
William  looks  at  her;  and  his  glance  gradu- 
ally wavers. 


ACT  in  THE  ELDEST  SON  67 

Sir  William.  I've  not  a  word  to  say  for  my  son. 
He's  behaved  like  a  scamp. 

Freda.  Oh!  no! 

Sir  Wiluam.  [With  a  silencing  gesture]  At  the  same 
time —  What  made  you  forget  yourself.''  You've  no 
excuse,  you  know. 

Freda.  No. 

Sir  William.  You'll  deserve  all  you'll  get.  Con- 
found it!  To  expect  me  to —  It's  intolerable!  Do 
you  know  where  my  son  is? 

Freda.  [Faintly]  I  think  he's  in  the  billiard-room 
with  my  lady. 

Sir  William.  [With  renewed  resolution]  I  wanted  to 
— to  put  it  to  you — as  a — as  a — what!  [Seeing  her  stand 
so  absolviely  motionless,  looking  at  him,  he  turns  abruptly, 
and  opens  the  bUliard-room  door]  I'll  speak  to  him  first. 
Come  in  here,  please!  [To  Freda]  Go  in,  and  wait! 

Lady  Cheshire  and  Bill  come  in,  and  Freda 
passing  them,  goes  into  the  billiard-room  to  wait. 

Sir  William.  [Speaking  with  a  pause  between  each 
sentence]  Your  mother  and  I  have  spoken  of  this — ca- 
lamity. I  imagine  that  even  you  have  some  dim  percep- 
tion of  the  monstrous  nature  of  it.  I  must  tell  you  this: 
If  you  do  this  mad  thing,  you  fend  for  yourself.  You'll 
receive  nothing  from  me  now  or  hereafter.  I  consider 
that  only  due  to  the  position  our  family  has  always  held 
here.  Your  brother  will  take  your  place.  We  shall  get 
on  as  best  we  can  without  you.  [There  is  a  dead  silence, 
tiU  he  adds  sharply]  Well! 

Bill.  I  shall  marry  her. 


68  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  m 

Lady  Cheshire.  Oh!  Bill!  Without  love — without 
anything! 

Bill.  All  right,  mother!  [To  Sir  William]  You've 
mistaken  your  man,  sir.  Because  I'm  a  rotter  in  one 
way,  I'm  not  necessarily  a  rotter  in  all.  You  put  the 
butt  end  of  the  pistol  to  Dunning's  head  yesterday, 
you  put  the  other  end  to  mine  to-day.  Well!  [He  turns 
round  to  go  oiU]  Let  the  d — d  thing  off! 

Lady  Cheshire.  Bill! 

Bill.  [Turning  to  her]  I'm  not  going  to  leave  her  in 
the  lurch. 

Sir  William.  Do  me  the  justice  to  admit  that  I  have 
not  attempted  to  persuade  you  to. 

Bill.  No!  you've  chucked  me  out.  I  don't  see  what 
else  you  could  have  done  under  the  circumstances.  It's 
quite  all  right.  But  if  you  wanted  me  to  throw  her  over, 
father,  you  went  the  wrong  way  to  work,  that's  all; 
neither  you  nor  I  are  very  good  at  seeing  consequences. 

Sir  William.  Do  you  realise  your  position  ? 

Bill.  [Grimly]  I've  a  fair  notion  of  it. 

Sir  William.  [With  a  sudden  o^dburst]  You  have 
none — ^not  the  faintest,  brought  up  as  you've  been. 

Bill.  I  didn't  bring  myself  up. 

Sir  William.  [With  a  movement  of  uncontrolled  anger, 
to  which  his  son  responds]  You — ungrateful  young  dog! 

Lady  Cheshire.  How  can  you — both  ? 

[They  drop  their  eyes,  and  stand  silent. 

Sir  William.  [With  grimly  suppressed  emotion]  I  am 
speaking  under  the  stress  of  very  great  pain — some  con- 
sideration is  due  to  me.     This  is  a  disaster  which  I  never 


ACT  in  THE  ELDEST  SON  69 

expected  to  have  to  face.  It  is  a  matter  wliich  I  natu- 
rally can  never  hope  to  forget.  I  shall  carry  this  down 
to  my  death.  We  shall  all  of  us  do  that.  I  have  had 
the  misfortune  all  my  life  to  believe  in  our  position  here 
— ^to  believe  that  we  counted  for  something — that  the 
country  wanted  us.  I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty  by  that 
position.  I  find  in  one  moment  that  it  is  gone — smoke 
— gone.  My  philosophy  is  not  equal  to  that.  To  coun- 
tenance this  marriage  would  be  unnatural. 

BiLX..  I  know.  I'm  sorry.  I've  got  her  into  this — 
I  don't  see  any  other  way  out.    It's  a  bad  business  for 

me,  father,  as  weU  as  for  you 

He  stopsj  seeing  that  Jackson  has  come  in,  and 
is  standing  there  waiting. 

Jackson.  Will  you  speak  to  Studdenham,  Sir 
WiUiam  ?    It's  about  young  Dunning. 

Afier  a  moment  of  dead  silence^  Sib  William 
nods,  and  the  butler  withdraws. 

Bill.  [Stolidly]  He'd  better  be  told. 

Sib  William.  He  shall  be. 

Studdenham  enters,  and  touches  his  forehead  to 
them  all  with  a  comprehensive  gesture. 

Studdenham.  Good  evenin',  my  lady!  Evenin',  Sir 
WiUiam! 

Studdenham.  Glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you,  the  young 
man's  to  do  the  proper  thing.  Asked  me  to  let  you 
know.  Sir  William.  Banns'Il  be  up  next  Sunday. 
[Struck  by  the  silence,  he  looks  round  at  all  three  in  turn, 
and  suddenly  seeing  that  Lady  Cheshibe  is  shivering] 
Beg  pardon,  my  lady,  you're  shakin'  like  a  leaf! 


70  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  m 

Bill.  [Blurting  it  out]  I've  a  painful  piece  of  news 
for  you,  Studdenham;  I'm  engaged  to  your  daughter. 
We're  to  be  married  at  once. 

Studdenham.  I — don't — understand  you — sir. 

Bill.  The  fact  is,  I've  behaved  badly;  but  I  mean 
to  put  it  straight. 

Studdenham.  I'm  a  little  deaf.  Did  you  say — my 
daughter  ? 

Sir  William,  There's  no  use  mincing  matters,  Stud- 
denham. It's  a  thunderbolt — young  Dunning's  case 
over  again. 

Studdenham.  I  don't  rightly  follow.  She's — 
You've — !  I  must  see  my  daughter.  Have  the  good- 
ness to  send  for  her,  m'lady. 

Lady  Cheshire  goes  to  the  btUiard-room,  and 
calls:  "Freda,  come  here,  please." 

Studdenham.  [To  Sir  William]  You  tell  me  that 
my  daughter's  in  the  position  of  that  girl  owing  to  your 
son  ?     Men  ha'  been  shot  for  less. 

Bill.  If  you  like  to  have  a  pot  at  me,  Studdenham — 
you're  welcome. 

Studdenham.  [Averting  his  eyes  from  Bill  at  the 
sheer  idiocy  of  this  sequel  to  his  words\  I've  been  in  your 
service  five  and  twenty  years.  Sir  William;  but  this  is 
man  to  man — this  is! 

Sir  William.  I  don't  deny  that,  Studdenham. 

Studdenham.  \With  eyes  shifting  in  sheer  anger] 
No — 'twouldn't  be  very  easy.  Did  I  understand  him 
to  say  that  he  oflFers  her  marriage  ? 

Sir  Wiluam.  You  did. 


ACT  in  THE  ELDEST  SON  71 

Studdenham.  [Into  his  heard\  Well — that's  some- 
thing! {Moving  his  hands  as  if  wringing  the  neck  of  a 
bird]  I'm  tryin'  to  see  the  rights  o'  this. 

Sir  William.  {Bitterly^  You've  all  your  work  cut  out 
for  you,  Studdenham. 

Again  Studdenham  makes  the  unconscious 
wringing  movement  with  his  hands. 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Turning  from  it  with  a  sort  of  hor- 
ror] Don't,  Studdenham!    Please! 

Studdenham.  What's  that,  m'lady? 

Lady  Cheshire.  [Under  her  breath]  Your — ^your — 
hands. 

While  Studdenham  is  still  staring  at  her,  Freda 
is  seen  standing  in  the  doorway,  like  a  black 
ghost. 

Studdenham.  Come  here!  You!  [Freda  moves  a 
few  steps  towards  her  father]  When  did  you  start 
this? 

Freda.  [Almost  inaudibly]  In  the  summer,  father. 

Lady  Cheshire.  Don't  be  harsh  to  her! 

Studdenham.  Harsh!  [His  eyes  again  mx)ve  from 
side  to  side  as  if  pain  and  anger  had  bewildered  them. 
Then  looking  sideways  at  Freda,  but  in  a  gentler  voice] 
And  when  did  you  tell  him  about — what's  come  to 
you? 

Freda.  Last  night. 

Studdenham.     Oh!     \With  sudden  menace]     You 

young !  [He  makes  a  convulsive  movement  of  one 

hand;    then,  in  the  silence,  seems  to  lose  grip  of  his 
thoughts,  and  puts  his  hand  up  to  his  head]  I  want  to 


72  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  ui 

clear  me  mind  a  bit — I  don't  see  it  plain  at  all.  [With- 
out looking  at  Bill]  'Tis  said  there's  been  an  oflfer  of 
marriage  ? 

Bill.  I've  made  it,  I  stick  to  it. 

Studdenham.  Oh!  [Wiihshw,piizzledanger]  I  want 
time  to  get  the  pith  o'  this.  You  don't  say  anything, 
Sir  William? 

Sib  William.  The  facts  are  all  before  you. 

Studdenham.  [Scarcely  moving  his  lips]  M'lady  ? 
[Lady  Cheshire  is  silent. 

Studdenham.  [StaTinnering]  My  girl  was — ^was  good 
enough  for  any  man.  It's  not  for  him  that's — that's — 
to  look  down  on  her.  [To  Freda]  You  hear  the  hand- 
some oflFer  that's  been  made  you?  Well?  [Freda 
moistens  her  lips  and  tries  to  speak,  hut  cannot]  If 
nobody's  to  speak  a  word,  we  won't  get  much  for- 
rarder.  I'd  like  for  you  to  say  what's  in  your  mind. 
Sir  William. 

Sir  William.  I — If  my  son  marries  her  he'll  have  to 
make  his  own  way. 

Studdenham.  [Savagely]  I'm  not  puttin'  thought  to 
that. 

Sir  William.  I  didn't  suppose  you  were,  Studden- 
ham. It  appears  to  rest  with  your  daughter.  [He  sud- 
denly takes  Old  his  handkerchief,  and  puts  it  to  his  fore- 
head] Infernal  fires  they  make  up  here! 

Lady  Cheshire,  who  is  again  shivering  desper- 
ately, 05  if  with  intense  cold,  makes  a  violent 
attempt  to  control  her  shuddering. 


ACTin  THE  ELDEST  SON  73 

Studdenham.  [Suddenly]  There's  luxuries  that's  got 
to  be  paid  for.  [To  Feed  a]  Speak  up,  now. 

Freda  turns  slowly  and  looks  up  at  Sir  William;-  , 
he  involuntarily  raises  his  hand  to  his  moiUh.  | 
Her  eyes  travel  on  to  Lady  Cheshire,  who  \ 
faces  her,  but  so  deadly  pale  that  she  looks  as  \ 
if  she  were  going  to  faint.     The  girl's  gaze  \ 
passes  on  to  Bill,  standing  rigid,  with  his 
jaw  set. 
Freda.  I  want — [Then  flinging  her  arm  up  over  her 
eyes,  she  turns  from  Aim]  No! 
Sir  William.  Ah! 

At  thai  sound  of  profound  relief,  Studdenham, 
whose  eyes  have  been  following  his  daughter's, 
moves  towards  Sir  William,  all  his  emotion 
turned  into  sheer  angry  pride. 
Studdenham.  Don't  be  afraid.  Sir  William!    We 
want  none  of  you !    She'll  not  force  herself  where  she's 
not  welcome.     She  may  ha'  slipped  her  good  name,  but 
she'll  keep  her  proper  pride.     I'll  have  no  charity  mar- 
riage in  my  family. 
Sir  William.  Steady,  Studdenham! 
Studdenham.  If  the  young  gentleman  has  tired  of 
her  in  three  months,  as  a  blind  man  can  see  by  the 
looks  of  him — she's  not  for  him! 

Bill.  [Stepping  forward]  I'm  ready  to  make  it  up  to 
her. 

Studdenham.  Keep  back,  there  ?  [He  takes  hold  of 
Freda,  and  looks  around  him]  Well!  She's  not  the 
first  this   has  happened  to   since  the    world    began, 


74  THE  ELDEST  SON  act  m 

an*  she  won't  be  the  last.      Come  away,  now,  come 
away! 

Taking  Freda  by  the  shoulders,  he  guides  her 
towards  the  door. 

Sir   William.  D n   it,   Studdenham!    Give  us 

credit  for  something! 

Studdenham.  [Turning — his  face  and  eyes  lighted  up 
by  a  sort  of  smiling  snarl]  Ah!  I  do  that,  Sir  William. 
But  there's  things  that  can't  be  undone! 

[He  follows  Freda  out. 
As  the  door  closes.  Sir  William's  calm  gives  way. 
He  staggers  past  his  wife,  and  sinks  heavily, 
as  though  exhausted,  into  a  chair  by  the  fire. 
Bill,  following  Freda  and  Studdenham,  has 
stopped  at  the  shut  door.  Lady  Cheshire 
moves  swiftly  close  to  him.  The  door  of  the 
billiard-room  is  opened,  and  Dot  appears.  With 
a  glance  round,  she  crosses  quickly  to  her  mother. 
Dot.  [In  a  low  voice]  Mabel's  just  going,  mother! 

[Almost  whispering]  Where's  Freda?    Is  it Has 

she  really  had  the  pluck? 

Lady  Cheshire  bending  her  head  for  "  Yes," 
goes  out  into  the  billiard-room.  Dot  clasps  her 
hands  together,  and  standing  there  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  looks  from  her  brother  to  her  father, 
from  her  father  to  her  brother.  A  quaint  little 
pitying  smile  comes  on  her  lips.  She  gives  a 
faint  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 

The  curtain  falls. 


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